


The Hawaiian Project

by HidingintheInkwell



Series: Butterfly Project [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, THESE BABIES WILL GET HELP I PROMISE, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-16 02:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14154909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingintheInkwell/pseuds/HidingintheInkwell
Summary: It started after his mom died, but not right after.***********They both have their stories, written in crimson across paled skin. They keep them secret, but the secret’s about to be out.***********It started when he was fourteen, and it had scared him.





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own these precious babies. If I did Cath would never have returned from Afghanistan, McDanno would be canon and Rachel can go jump into a volcano.

It started after his mom had supposedly died, but not right after. No, right after he had to take care of Mary, had to try and rebuild his life so far away from the one he’d had to leave behind. it was getting Mary settled in with their aunt, getting registered with brand new schools, buying whole new wardrobes because shorts and sundresses weren’t always appropriate for their part of the mainland, and it was making sure Steve had everything he needed before he was sent to the Academy. There wasn’t much time for thinking, not until he was a month in and neck deep in drills and studies. There were therapists for the first few months, for him and Mary both. “To help you through the grieving process,” Aunt Deb had said when he’d called after being taken out of his military history class and sent to talk to the academy head shrinker. That was the last time he talked to her for a long time. The shrinker appointments didn’t last more than a few months. They prescribed a journal, talking about what had happened. But there was nothing to write about. To talk about, so instead he used it to keep track of what he was learning, what was going on. What he thought Mary and Aunt Deb were doing. What his dad was doing. The shrinker could find no reason to keep seeing him, letting him return to his studies with a smile, pat on the shoulder, and a “my door is always open, Steven”. He never went again, instead throwing himself into his training, his studies, climbing his way to the top of his class.

 

Senior year they could have called him “top of the world”. He was top of his class with rumors flying that he was a shoe-in for the BUD/S after graduation. “Making his father proud,” officers said to one another as he walked by with head held high. They had no idea that he threw himself into everything so fully because it was the only thing that kept the dark thoughts at bay. But sometimes, well after lights out and his roommate had started snoring, Steve would be stuck wide awake, staring up at the ceiling while events flashed across his vision. His mom was gone. Car accident. But he knew the truth. He’d used one of the library computers and his dad’s password to hack into the HPD database.  _ Car bomb _ . That’s what had killed his mom, had almost killed his dad. Who’d want to kill his parents? He knew his dad had put a lot of people away with his job, but had one of them really been angry enough to plant a bomb in his car? His mom was gone….she’d never see him graduate. Never see  _ Mary  _ graduate, or help her get ready for prom, or her wedding…. Mary was just a kid, and she’d had the only life and family she knew uprooted and taken away…. He had no idea when he’d see her again. Would his mom be proud of him? Proud that he was following his dad’s footsteps and joining the Navy? Or would she be upset with him for not pursuing football? Star Quarterback. The Academy had a team, but he was too busy with his studies to try out. 

 

No…. it didn’t start right after his mom’s death, or even at the Academy; he was kept too busy for that. Then he met Freddie.

 

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Freddie Hart was a reckless hothead, jumping before he even saw where he was going. Far from top of his class, many of the teachers wondered if he was even cut out for the military, but there was a fire in him that kept him going. Naturally, he and Steve became fast friends. Freddie had a girl back home. Her name was Kelly, and he’d sneak out at night or on weekends to see her. They’d been sweethearts forever and Freddie swore before he shipped out for the first time, he was going to marry her. Steve would roll his eyes, tell him he was crazy, and that he should get his ass in gear and start running or he’d never make it through BUD/S orientation. His dad had told him about it the last time they’d talked. A ten minute conversation over a year ago. He’d said it was designed to break you. Test you and make sure you were worthy to carry the title of SEAL. If you weren’t focused, you wouldn’t make it. And Freddie was anything  _ but _ focused. But for some reason, Steve decided he was going to do everything possible to make sure this guy made it through. 

 

He almost didn’t. Hell Week at Coronado lived up to its name as every day Steve watched as Cadet after Cadet dropped their liners, the bell ringing out at all hours across the training grounds as the rest of them ran through drill after drill and survey after survey. It was Day Five, and well into the dark when a sleep deprived Steve found himself tackling the man who’d quickly become his best friend before he could make the biggest mistake of his life. They were wet, tired, and freezing cold, but they were nearly there and Steve knew if he let Freddie quit now, the other man would regret it for the rest of his life. So he stopped him, and they got busted by the Chief Petty Officer, and had to do laps and surveys and swims till well after noon, but by the time Day Seven came to an end Freddie Hart was still there. And if when they were getting their mandatory medical examinations before being allowed to return to the bunks for sleep, and Steve saw the small, angry red lines that were scattered across the insides of his upper arms, he didn’t say anything when the doctors brushed them off as incidents during the rigorous training they’d just been through. It didn’t stop him from wondering when the other had found the time. 

 

Fourteen weeks later found Lieutenant Commander Steven J. McGarrett graduating at the top of his class with Lieutenant Commander Freddie Hart not far behind. And if by the end of that time they both bore a few more scars than they’d entered with, well that was nobody’s business but theirs. 

 

For Freddie Hart, it had been the pressure. The wondering “am I really good enough to be here?” night after night as he lay awake in his bunk. It was only after graduation, when they’d been given their first leave before shipping off, and Freddie was on his way home to marry the girl of his dreams that he realized, the man who’d become his best friend, the one who’d saved his life, not all of his scars could be explained away as accidents. But then again, neither could Freddie’s.

 

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It didn’t start at the Academy, and while there were a few unexplainable marks during training, for Steve, it didn’t truly start until after that first tour. Afghanistan, 1996. First run out had left half the convoy dead from an IED. They’d been sent to clear a small village. Abandoned earlier in the war, it had been overrun by insurgents and happened to have strategic tactical advantage for both sides. Naturally, the military couldn’t have that. The remaining members of the convoy were in position, Harrington had point, Steve and Freddie at his eight and four with their gunner, Nick Taylor, taking six. They moved slow, just like training, keeping their sights around. Taylor was jumpy. Steve could see him making sweeps out of the corner of his eye, jumping at every little flutter of a torn canopy or cloth door in the dry breeze occasionally stirred in their own private desert hell. They’d barely made it half in before they started popping up like arcade whack-a-moles, taking shots from balconies and doorways before disappearing just as quickly. Steve took out the one that had taken a shot at Harrington, sending in a grenade round to make sure any more wouldn’t be able to try again. 

 

Something struck him in the back, sending him face first into the dust and adding frantic coughs and shouts to the near constant gunfire that staccatoed off the sides of mud walled buildings. Someone was tugging at him, trying to get him back on his feet. “Come on, McGarrett! Get up! You hit?” he was being yanked to his feet while all around him the air was exploding in gunfire and for a brief moment he was back in Phase Three where the COs would set off a round of blank AK-47s right near their ears to wake them up for the next round of training. He was being spun, pat down, and was relieved when he felt no blood soaking into his fatigues underneath. Freddie’s dusty, helmet shadowed face swam in front of him. “You okay, Smooth Dog?” he asked, leaning close so his barely above a whisper could be heard over the din around them. Steve nodded, shaking himself out and readying his weapon. “Who hit me?” he shouted, and watched as Freddie lost three shades of tan beneath the layer of dust.  _ Friendly Fire? _ He thought, and then he saw it. Lying barely five feet away was a little boy. Couldn’t be older than ten. Just another casualty in this endless hell…. He shook himself, shook his friend, and re-shouldered his MP7 with a mental reminder to keep an extra eye on Freddie when they returned to base camp that night. 

 

Everything was dead quiet in the heat of the night as everyone caught what sleep they could. Hidden from even the threat of moonlight in his corner bunk, he put the tip of his always sharp Ontario to the soft part of his thigh. One for the first convoy; for Dennys, and Reed, and Hardy, and Johanson and Patterson; Patterson had a baby girl at home. And one for a little boy born into a time and race that stuck a gun to his shoulder and told him to shoot. For the little boy whose mother would never know what became of him. He was careful to not let the blood stain the sheets, mopping it up and bandaging it properly, if a tad too tight. Then he lay back down on his mattress and let the blankness of the canvas above his head lull his mind for a couple more hours. In the cot next to his, Freddie slept like the dead. 

 

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Before being accepted into the BUD/S program, candidates have to go through a series of extensive tests, both mental and physical. Psychological exams are just a part of the process. They have to make sure you can handle the training to come; training designed to break you down, make you stronger. The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday. By the end of it all, their pain tolerances could rival people suffering from Congenital Analgesia with the mental control of Professor Xavier. They were machines. Only problem, they didn’t bleed oil. 

 

It had been years. Steve had grown, matured, learned to harden himself against the lives they were forced to take. They were sent on mission after mission, village to village. Taking out the whack-a-moles as they moved in practiced formation. They had each others backs. And then came Iraq. They were a month out from reassignment; being sent back to the states long enough to get some American food back in their systems before they’d be sent off again. It was rumored their next mission would be a covert assignment to North Korea, and Freddie was going home to see Kelly. He’d offered to bring Steve along, but Steve had politely refused, telling him he was going to take his place where they stuck him because it was the only way he’d get any sleep. Freddie had laughed, punched him in the arm and joked that “at least one of them was gonna be getting laid,  _ Smooth Dog.”  _ Steve took pride in that smile, the way his friend’s eyes still held that spark they’d had way back at the start of training. No marks had appeared on that body that weren’t justly deserved since those weeks way back in training. He had reason to live. 

 

It was a school. In a tiny village on the outskirts of Kifri. They’d been there to distribute supplies while their medical team assisted the Doctors Without Borders in treating the children and villagers. Someone had broken out a pot and was working with some of the Jaddati to make some stew for lunch while Hanna and Jacks tossed a ball Hanna’s family had sent in his last care package with some of the older kids who’d already been checked over. Jacks had just gone down under a dogpile of boney limbs and billowing fabric, Freddie and Steve watching from point guard and laughing their heads off when they heard it; the sharp, high pitched whine. All at once, it was as if the very air around them had frozen, like that awful moment before a major disaster. Looking back, that’s exactly what it was. All they could do was impersonate statues as the whine grew louder, and beneath it Steve’s ears picked up a rumbling, like when Kilauea was getting ready to blow her top again. All at once, every SEAL was falling back on the training they had had beaten into them. “Get inside!” Steve roared, yanking Hanna and Jacks to their feet and shoving them into action. As the two quickly ushered the children and relatives into the general safety of the schoolhouse, the rest of them readied themselves for what was coming. 

 

Not a single shot was fired, but the massive cloud where the schoolhouse had been was worse than any physical wound they could have received. 

 

That night, overlapping puckered wounds that had started going silver, the lives of a dozen children marched across pale skin.

 

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September, 2010. Anton Hesse’s time had just run out. They’d tracked him into North Korea, slipping across the border in a covert OP to retrieve him. Only problem, he’d gained protection from one of the most ruthless militia leaders in North Korea; Han Ji-Woon. They knew it was going to be hot going in, so they kept it small, teams of no more than three at a time. Team Alpha was Freddie, Steve, and a Lieutenant named Bradley. It was decided they’d be the ones to go into the camp to retrieve Hesse while the others hung back to aid in extraction and keep down attention. They went in like they were born to do it. Only Bradley stepped into a tripwire, gone in a flash and a spray of red. All they could do was spare the briefest moments of silence before moving on. Time to grieve could come later, and the Lieutenant should have watched his feet. They let the barest thought that they’d made it undetected even with Bradley’s clumsiness flicker across their minds, and then the fireworks started. 

 

Capturing Anton Hesse wasn’t the problem. Getting him away from the militia was. Between the two of them Freddie and Steve managed to take out a half dozen before Freddie covered as Steve barged into the hideout, taking out another 8 before grabbing Hesse and making a run for it. They were nearly to the truck they’d spotted and cleared on the way in when he heard Freddie cry out behind him. Half shielding the arms dealer, he turned to see his friend and partner lying in the mud, the front of his fatigues a growing stain of red. He’d wanted so desperately to go back and get him, even making moves towards the man before being waved off, even wounded the taller man sounded as cocky and authoritative as ever. His last view of the Lieutenant was of him lying half propped against a dead Korean, war face on as he lay down cover fire for the two fleeing men. 

 

That night, back on the safe side of the border with Hesse in chains and under heavy guard, Steve McGarrett took his Ontario in hand. He went deep and he went long, from groin to hough, over aged scars turned silver white and fresh skin paled despite the near constant sun from months of long pants, over and over until the pain blocked everything else out; the call Kelly would be receiving when it was a suitable hour, the daughter who’d only ever know her father through pictures and stories, but who’d never know the truth of the mission that cost her his life, for the man with the brand new tattoo who’d never make it home again. He vowed to return one day, when all was said and done and the psychopath responsible was in prison where he belonged. He’d go back for the body, bring him home. Dizzy with blood loss and the adrenaline crash, Steve bandaged himself a tad too tight, relishing in the burn it sent down his abused muscles. Pain is weakness leaving the body. Then he lay down in his bunk, and let the shards of his broken heart numb him into sleep.

 

It should have been him. Freddie had been the better SEAL anyway. Ever since that day in BUD/S. 

 

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The marks still oozed fresh four days later when John McGarrett said goodbye to his son over the phone. Right before his brains were blown out his ears by Victor Hesse. The last time he’d talked to the man had been before he shipped out to his first assignment after Basic. He’d gotten the answering machine. The next day, twelve lines criss crossed over the inside of his thigh, overlaying the ones that still oozed sluggishly down the inside of his leg. One for every year since he’d last seen his father. He doused them with antibiotic ointment before bandaging them, adding a double layer just to be safe. After their failed mission extracting Hesse, Intelligence was granting Steve leave to go home and bury him. Eighteen years, and he still wouldn’t get to see his father’s face. Victor Hesse’s bullet had assured a closed casket. 

 

Steve barely had time to put together the funeral, having been stopped as soon as he was off the carrier by the latest governor. His father was laid to rest with honors next to his mother. Even retired from the military, he was still a soldier. He’d told Steve before they went away that he was proud of him. Glancing down at the gashes hidden beneath layers of bandages and fabric, he couldn’t help but think that his father would have been horrified.    
  


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Detective Sergeant Danny Williams almost died today. It wasn’t as though it was anything special, the man had been shot in the arm their first case out together after all, but for some reason seeing his partner lying there paler than the hospital bed sheets hit him so much harder than all those times he’d only been admitted long enough to be patched up before being sent home. This time, though, it felt different. This time, Danny had been alone when it happened. Steve had been off chasing down Sing Min like the Big Bad Soldier Boy he was while Danny had gone in to check the house alone. He hadn’t been there to read the signs; Sarin was nasty. He’d seen the results in the villages decimated by the Taliban. People lying where they fell, covered in their own bodily fluids as the gas they'd been exposed to attacked their nervous systems, sending their enzymes that controlled these things into overdrive. He should have been there to read the signs, warn Danny before he could touch the body. When he got back and saw Danny stumbling out, choking on his own spit as he struggled to breathe. He should have seen it, should have grabbed the RSDL (Reactive Skin Decontamination Lotion) that had become habit for him to carry in one of his many pockets. He should have done  _ something. _ But he could only watch as the ambulance pulled away, taking the man that had fast become his best friend to the hospital for treatment. 

 

They caught her. It took Steve almost being run over by her car, but they got her. It turned out the sarin attack had been meant as a diversion, though their victim, Amoka Mulitalo, hadn’t been the intended one. Steve had been kept too busy during the case to really let everything sink in, visiting Danny in the hospital every chance he could between running down leads and driving Chin crazy with his antics. The man had commented that he had an all new level of respect for the incapacitated blond. He hadn’t known Danny was being released until he’d shown up at the Five-0 headquarters, having been too busy questioning Chloe Balletine before handing her over to HPD. The lack of “Book ‘em, Danno” rang clear through the headquarters. Then, as though summoned by the very thought of him, in walked Danny Williams. He was greeted by hugs and back slaps as everyone assured him of how grateful they were to have him back, how much they’d missed him. Chin jokingly told him he could have the job of Steve’s partner back, and the blond man was still chuckling when he turned to the ex-SEAL. “So, uh,” Danny shifted. “A couple people told me I owe you a thank you…” Steve’s heart lodged in the back of his throat. Danny didn’t need to thank him. It was Steve who’d put him in the hospital in the first place. Realizing the silence between the two was stretching out a bit longer than appropriate and Danny had started fidgeting awkwardly, Steve cracked what he hoped was a sincere if cocky smile, praying his guilt wasn’t visible. “A hug’ll do…” 

 

That night as he stood in the shower, washing away the grime even if he couldn’t wash away the guilt, he let himself break down, tears that--had anyone been around to see--could be blamed on shampoo running into his eyes mingling with the hot water as it ran down his face. He stayed silent, though, lump of guilt at nearly taking a loving father from his beautiful little girl, and the guilt he’d felt at the wave of jealousy that had washed through him when he’d walked into that hospital room bent on making Danny feel better, but seeing Rachel sitting there in the uncomfortable bedside chair, dark hair fanned across Danny’s chest from where she was using the unconscious man as a pillow. Eyes still burning and skin raw from where he’d rubbed at it too hard, like he could rub away all the turmoil that clenched and clawed at his insides, he reached towards his sink for his straight razor, a gift from his Uncle Leo when he turned fifteen. The handle was dark polished mahogany, and the blade was kept sharp out of habit, even if Steve didn’t use it often, preferring more modern razors that were a bit more forgiving than the straight when he slipped. Right now, though, he didn’t want forgiving. Gripping the handle that became surprisingly slippery under the spray, he let it against his left thigh, mark free at the moment, and drew it across the skin, bite of metal stinging against the hot spray. The first couple were clumsy, and he almost dropped the blade as he tried wielding it in a new, unnatural angle, but by the fifth, his hand had steadied, finding a position that felt more natural to his grip. As he watched the red flowing across the white of the shower floor, whirlpooling around the drain before disappearing down the aged pipes, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if Danny was home alone, or if Rachel was there with him. 

 

The straight razor slipped from his grip to clatter by his feet.

 

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The terrorist had a  _ fucking  _ failsafe. Of  _ course _ he did, and of  _ course _ it  _ had _ to be Danny who triggered it. The same man who’d been shopping with his daughter for something to wear to a Father-Daughter dance that evening, the same man who just  _ minutes  _ ago had told Steve he was living on borrowed time, had triggered a proximity sensor on the would-be terrorist’s vest. He’d had to remain completely still, something Steve would have joked that he hadn’t thought the shorter man was capable of had the situation not been so dire. Danny had tried repeatedly to make the brunet leave, no use in them both getting blown to bits because  _ someone  _ had to tell Grace how much her father had loved her and wanted to make it to that dance. Hearing that, a part of Steve had cried out in pain and he knew he could never have left the terrified man alone. 

 

So he’d stayed, despite the protests of SWAT and HPD and Chin and Kono and Danny, he stayed, keeping still right along with his partner, keeping him talking about the reason he was living on borrowed time. His heart went out when he was told what had happened to Grace’s namesake, a woman named Grace Tilwell who from Danny’s description, had in spirit passed on much of her spitfire to the little girl waiting for her daddy to pick her up for the dance. He knew the pain of losing someone so close, someone you trusted with your life, and Steve was sure that, had the woman still been alive and had they met, they’d have gotten along like a house on fire. 

 

SWAT did its job and before they knew it (even if it had felt like hours) Danny was all but falling into Steve’s arms, the taller man embracing him back in what he knew must have been a painful grip, but the blond didn’t complain, instead tightening his own grip on the back of Steve’s shirt like he never wanted to let go, and the brunet felt a wave of relief go through him that he wasn’t going to have to witness the death of another partner. All too soon, though, Danny was leaving, having to go home and change if he was going to pick up Grace in time. Steve caught a ride home with Chin, who, bless him, didn’t try to make conversation about what had just happened; instead leaving Steve to his silence as the adrenaline worked its way out of his body. By the time the Hawaiian born dropped him off at his house, Steve was starting to feel the post-adrenaline shakes, barely making it to his bedroom before the wave hit him and he was collapsing to his bed. He wept for Danny and his borrowed time, for Detective Tilwell, who lost her life way too soon, for Grace and the dance that almost never was, and he wept for Freddie, lost in a jungle in North Korea, and Kelly and the little girl who’d never know her daddy. 

 

He sobbed until there was nothing left and he was laying on his bed gasping like a fish out of water, desperate for air that he knew was there but for whatever reason wasn’t reaching his lungs. Stumbling to his feet, head swimming and nose stuffed, face tightening with the salt of drying tears as he walked on shaking legs to the bathroom, all but falling against the sink when his knees threatened to quit supporting him. He met his own wet green eyes, red rimmed and blown wide with desperation, mouth open as he desperately sought to bring air into his oxygen deprived lungs. He’d had several close calls with drowning during BUD/S training, but this was so, so much worse. Unable to tear his gaze away from his reflection, he fumbled along his countertop until his fingers clasped around the wooden handle, having been cleaned and set aside without a second thought after the last time he’d put it to use. He heard it flick open with the practiced ease of someone frequently using quick-releases, and he was setting it against the inside of his left thigh, muscles underneath the skin quivering with tension. The moment he felt that first sting and the tell-tale warmth of blood running down the inside of his leg and down his calf, he took the first deep breath in what had felt like ages. With each cut, he felt his chest untighten, oxygen pouring into his lungs and bloodstream at a rate that made him dizzy, like he’d been having to hold his breath underwater and was finally,  _ finally  _ capable of surfacing for air, lungs burning. 

 

Rinsing the blade under the faucet, he met his gaze once more, eyes still red but less panicked, almost relaxed. He reached for the bandages, fresh wounds pulling sharply as he shifted his stance, and for the first time in a long time, he was scared of his own reflection. 

 

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They’d lied to him. They’d been promised Freddie’s body would be returned with respect, but they’d sent an imposter. Freddie had had a tattoo, one of those cliche “name on a banner around a heart” tattoos with Kelly’s name on it. He’d been proud of that tattoo, and even after three years in a shallow jungle grave, it still would have been there. So he’d left, sneaking past the demilitarized zone and retracing steps he’d followed in so many dreams, back to where it ended. He’d captured a Gook (or NoKo as Freddie had called them, because Gook sounded too old fashioned and like the stuff the mess tended to feed them when command was pissed) and interrogated him, not caring what methods he had to use. They’d  _ lied _ to him, tried to dupe him with a fake body. Tried to make him believe he finally had his friend back when in reality he was decomposing in a hole in a hostile foreign land. 

 

Now he knew why they’d lied and sent the wrong body. Freddie was found in a shallow grave, barely more than a shovel of dirt tossed atop a burlap bundle. The elements had not been kind, and it had taken Steve a moment to find the tell tale tattoo before he let the anger rise up inside him. They’d desecrated him. His kneecaps had been blown out, bones splintered and shattered from where he’d been trod upon like a rug, or a particularly foul insect. Bodies were to be treated with respect after death, regardless of whether or not they were friend or foe. Rewrapping the body best he could to prevent any pieces of his buddy from being left behind in this humid hellhole, he turned to Cat and vowed his revenge on the leader of the militia who’d done this to him. Then, as though North Korea was angry that he’d escaped the first time, it unleashed it’s demons upon them.

 

Steve got his revenge. They were captured and tortured, the militia seeming to not care that they had no information, that they were there without anyone’s notice, but no force on Earth could stand against a pissed off Navy SEAL. They freed themselves, taking Freddie’s body and making a break for it. And if in the process Ji-Woon was killed… well, no one would find out for a long, long time what happened. When they finally did, all they’d find would be two dozen bodies, unidentifiable once the animals had their say. 

 

They made it back to the states with the body; the  _ right  _ body. They’d gone against military orders and crossed the demilitarized zone. They were expecting hell to rain down on their heads, but it never came. They were debriefed and allowed to leave while Freddie’s body was taken in and prepped for the funeral scheduled later that week. 

 

At the funeral, no one noticed how Steve kept his legs slightly more apart than standard attention, nor did they notice the hint of a wince that crossed his face when he snapped to a salute, heels connecting with a sharp click. No one had to know that the night before, he’d reopened three year old wounds. He took his place, folding the flag with coordinated precision before turning and handing it to Kelly; Kelly, who for the first time has some closure and a place to visit her husband. The blonde woman was putting on a brave face, but Steve could see the shine of tears there, being held back with each blink by sheer force of will. Kneeling down, Steve met the big blue eyes of Freddie’s daughter, the little girl he’d been so excited to meet. Almost four, Kelly told him later. She looked just like her father. White gloved hands brushed pale blonde hair as he lowered the recovered dog tags over her head. “Your daddy was a hero,” he whispered to her, offering up a smile which was returned after a moment of timid hesitation. The funeral ended to the sound of twenty-one blanks being fired off in succession, dismissing the officers present. Steve nodded goodbye to Joe and Cat, wrapped Kelly in a hug, and then made his way to Danny and the cousins, dressed in black and standing off to the side to show support. As he got closer, Danny started toward him, looking very distinguished in his black suit, even if it still practically  _ screamed  _ “Mainlander”. “Hey, buddy. You okay?” he asked, clasping Steve around the bicep. At the same moment, one of his polished boots caught on a tree root and he came down hard on the opposite leg in order to keep his balance. The taller man tensed, pain radiating through him as the bandaged wounds pulled sharply. Forcing himself to relax before anyone could notice, he offered the blond a crooked grin. “Yeah, Danno. I’m fine.”

 

Later that day, after having said goodbye to his friends, Steve McGarrett found himself sitting in a fold up bench in a circle of military personnel. He talked with them about how Freddie’s death had affected him, how he’d felt like the Navy just wasn’t the same after he died, about the nightmares of being lost in a jungle in the heart of North Korea, desperately trying to find the man calling for help finding his way home. He did not talk about the scars.

 

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In outward appearance, Steve was calm and collected, even despite the plaster and cement dust that threatened to choke them with every breath. On the inside, though, he was freaking out. Danny was hurt. Danny was  _ dying _ … it had been a bad tip, a trick to lure them into a building only to have it fall down on their heads. Intel on a gun-buy turned out to be a captive on top of a bomb and the next thing he knew he was waking up to ringing ears and rubble dust in his lungs and the only thing he could get through his brain was “Danny, gotta find Danny…” the blond had been right next to him but now all he could see was dust and the ruins of a building…. And a pair of legs. Oh god, he thought, struggling to push himself to his feet, fighting down the waves of nausea. Please don’t be Danny… Danny hated enclosed spaces, he’d kill Steve if this is where he ended. He was a little ashamed at how relieved he was that the man beneath the rubble wasn’t his blond, worrywart of a partner. All they’d done that morning was argue, and if Danny had died down here, Steve would never have forgiven himself for letting the last words he said to the other man be argumentative and stubborn. 

 

Air was getting thinner, and Danny was still bleeding. He’d taken to wavering slightly, alternating between propping himself against rubble, and propping himself against Steve. They both knew the team was doing everything they could to get them out of there in one piece, but would it be soon enough? He shot a quick glance at his injured partner. He was pale even underneath the layers of dust, bits of it clumping into clay as the heat brought perspiration to his face. Steve had been in situations like this before, he was used to it. Danny was just a cop from New Jersey who’d had the unfortunate luck of being dragged into Steve’s riptide. And now he was going to lose another partner because of it.

 

On his darker days he wondered what Freddie’s life would have been like had Steve not kept him from DOR. Maybe he still would have stuck to the Navy, been stationed somewhere nice, had more blond haired, blue eyed kids… he’d never have had to spend his final hours in a humid hellhole. Casting one more glance back at the injured man who was chuckling on the verge of hysterics, he swore to himself he wouldn’t let this man die like this; in a place out of his deepest, darkest nightmares. Then they’d gotten the call. There was a way out. Only problem was, it involved, as Danny called it, the world’s most dangerous game of Jenga. They picked their way carefully, taking it slow so as not to aggravate Danny’s injuries any further. They were nearly there, Steve could see the bright green harness they’d lowered down to haul them up. Then everything beneath them shifted and once again they were trapped. 

 

As he prepped the bomb, he was relieved to hear Danny chuckling behind him, telling him he hated him from the bottom of his heart. Steve joined in as he dug around his pockets for the lighter. “I love you too, pal.” and he meant it. He loved the loud mouthed pain in the ass resting against a support beam behind him, had for a long, long time. With one last glance back, he set his lighter to the end of the pipe, and prayed. If they died in this reckless last ditch effort, then at least Danny would know the truth; that Steve loved him. He knew Danny had heard him making a sushi date with Cat, but that’s all it was; a promise that he’d get out of there and they’d go out for dinner. They were old friends, but that’s  _ all  _ they were. Cat knew his secrets, could tell his feelings for Danny from the first moment she’d seen them together. She’d been his lifeline for a long time, closer to him than family, but she’d always known where his feelings lay. 

 

He sent Danny up first, knowing the man would want nothing more than to see his little girl and let her know he was okay. Not to mention the much needed medical attention. Steve went next, barely clearing the hole before he was being slapped on the back in greeting, telling him he was glad to see him topside before Cat was wrapping him in a strong hug. Over her shoulder he could see the top of Danny’s head, bent low over the rib-high brown hair of Grace while a slightly taller woman with long dirty blonde hair and a short floral sundress clung to him. He saw them embracing, Grace stuck between her dad and the petite blonde woman who could only have been Amber. Danny had been talking about her a lot lately. They looked perfect, standing there wrapped around one another; like a proper family. And it made Steve ache in ways he never thought he would. It felt like someone was squeezing the air from his lungs. He found himself pulling away from Cat, putting on a steady appearance even if on the inside the adrenaline and heat exhaustion had him shaking. 

 

Kono was hugging him, Chin was greeting him with a clasp to the shoulder, and then he was in front of the little make-believe family being formally introduced to the woman who’d claimed his partner’s heart. Grace was hugging him tight, and he returned it just as much, and then he was being pulled to the side by a very dusty blond. “I feel the same way,” Danny said, and it took a moment for Steve’s now growing fuzzy brain to catch up. “How is that, exactly?” he asked, wanting to hear it.  _ Needing  _ to hear it. He was wrapped in strong arms, resisting the urge to bury his face deep in the crook of the shorter man’s neck and never let him go. “I love you,” the Jersey Boy whispered in his ear, and Steve felt something warm clench his insides. “I love you, buddy,” he whispered back. With one last squeeze they separated, Danny heading over to the ambulance to get his wound checked out and Steve was being directed towards Cat’s waiting car. She’d take him home, but then she had other things to do. 

 

He stood under the spray of his shower, watching the debris dust slough off and swirl down the rain. He was numb. They’d made it out, but Danny had almost died because he’d chosen to listen to a felon. One man  _ had  _ died, Dekker’s little brother. He’d been studying for the Bar exam. Danny was going to give it a proper shot with Amber, and that thought alone was enough to send Steve sinking into the bottom of the shower like all the air had just been stolen from his lungs. Danny may have hugged him, told him he loved him back, but the brunet knew it wasn’t the kind he felt for the blue eyed man. Ke aloha hoahanau; brotherly love. That’s what Danny felt toward the ex-SEAL, and that was all he felt. 

 

Standing, water still running, he stepped out onto the bathmat, trailing water as he walked into his bedroom as if in a trance, reaching down for his discarded pants and pulling out his pocket knife. The trusty Ontario had been through a lot with him, the black handle worn with use. It settled into his palm like it was a part of him. He flicked it open, catching his reflection in the sharpened metal. Flipping it over so that the tip of the blade was pointed at his stomach, he pressed it into his side, right over where Danny had been impaled. Crimson welled up, running down his torso, down his leg, aided by the water that still dripped off his skin. Muscles jumped and tensed beneath the taut skin as he drew the blade, carving an X no more than two inches wide; a reminder to himself to watch it before he trusted blindly. Letting the blood run, he set the knife to the inside of his left thigh, and pressed down hard. 

 

He went until he lost count, sinking down against the bed when the spinning in his head became too much. The floor beneath him was slick, and he knew he should get up and clean it up, but as the Ontario slipped from his grasp, handle slippery with blood and sweat, he found that he didn’t have the strength to force his shaky legs to hold his weight. He could still hear the water running in the bathroom. 

 

After what felt like ages, he felt some of the lead slipping from his limbs, and he was able to force himself into standing, slipping a couple times in the congealing puddle beneath him before he was able to keep to his feet. He left red footprints in his wake as he made his way back into the bathroom, stepping under the now frigid spray to wash off the rust colored excretions that covered his thighs. Once clean of all traces of spilled blood, he turned off the taxed faucet, toweled off, and reached for the bandages under the sink. He tied it off a tug too tight, pins and needles running down the appendage as he grabbed his discarded towel and stepped back into the bedroom. He threw on a pair of clean boxers, the light material rubbing uncomfortably against the bandages as he mopped up the puddle at the foot of his bed, throwing the now very red towel and stained sheets into the laundry and grabbing fresh ones to remake his bed. Finished with the necessary tasks, he let himself fall into the bed, exhaustion taking him almost before he could even pull the sheets up around himself.

 

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For a brief time, regardless of how drug induced it had been, he’d had his father back. John McGarrett had been alive, and Danny had been happy and not wearing a tie, Chin and Kono were cops, and everything had been perfect. And then, like all good dreams, it had had to come crashing down around his ears. He’d woken in a white room with a pretty girl pumping him full of drugs. The pretty girl had morphed into the scarred face of Wo Fat as a towel was thrown over his face, water dousing him and bringing with it a thousand memories of biting it on a wave, cold water drills, and the special brands of hell introduced to him through the SEALs and Navy Intel. He didn’t talk, though. Even when the drugs took him under again, bringing him back to Hawaii where he rode shotgun in a camaro with a blond man in a Hawaiian shirt, a blond man he knew in another life would never be caught dead in anything but button down and tie. 

 

It felt like another life. A part of his brain--the rational part-- _ screamed  _ at him that “none of this is real. Your father’s dead, killed on Wo Fat’s orders…” but the bigger part, the part that still ached each time the old scars tugged, or he saw a little boy running up to his dad to be swung up into strong arms, cried out and drowned out the rational side. “He’s alive! They got to him in time! You could have this! Live with it forever!” and he wanted to,  _ Gods,  _ did he want to. But he kept dragging himself back into the reality that had him trapped in the middle of nowhere, being tortured for information by a man who claimed to be his brother. He kept fighting, even as the drugs he was being given regularly slowed his response time and turned his muscled to sand. There was no way in  _ hell _ he was going to let that sonofabitch win. 

 

He wasn’t sure how, but he found the strength to end it. He broke free, taking Wo Fat head on and costing himself in blood. The man got in some lucky shots, but Steve didn’t let the loss of blood stop him; hadn’t before, wouldn’t let it now. Fighting two battles in one and determined not to lose, he managed to knock the other man’s feet out from under him so he could level the gun he’d managed to commandeer. “Are you really going to shoot me,  _ brother? _ ” were the last words he heard before his ears were ringing with gunfire and the white, blood- and water-slick floor was rushing to meet him. He went down hard, ceiling above him swimming with images that he couldn’t be sure were real or imaginary; his father smiling at him over a longboard, Danny in a Hawaiian shirt and a big smile, embracing the culture like he’d been born into it… then it was Danny, but he was wearing a tie and a kevlar vest, and he wasn’t smiling. He was frowning, worry creasing his brow like it always seemed to; on this Danny, anyway. The other Danny never frowned. Blue eyes were swimming, trying to hold on to his as he was being hoisted, checked over. “Where’s my dad?” he managed to choke out, half panicked as he took in the small room and familiar faces, but familiar from which reality? He focused back on those grounding blue eyes, the ones that could read him like a book without even trying. They looked heartbroken, and Steve knew which reality he was in. “Your dad’s dead, Steve. He’s been dead for a while now.”

 

He spent the chopper ride in silence, head resting on Danny’s lap while Kono and Chin sat across from them. He drifted in and out, but not to the reality where Danny wore Hawaiian shirts and his dad sat on the beach drinking longboards. He drifted in and out of blackness, Wo Fat’s face--startled in death, like he couldn’t believe Steve had actually shot him--swimming in and out every so often. Kono checked him over every once in a while, making sure the wounds he’d received during his “stay” weren’t going to pose any great risk. There was a hand in his hair, rubbing gently at his scalp. He never wanted it to stop. 

 

Later, when he was alone again at his own house, the rest of the team having been reluctant to let him out of their sight, he sat on his bed, rolling his Ontario back and forth between his hands, letting it dip every once in a while to pepper his scarred legs with pinpricks, no more than papercuts, really. Then he set it aside and pulled the blanket over his head, eyes burning in the darkness. There had been enough blood shed that day. 

 

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Funny thing was, he hadn’t even done anything this time. It had been a pretty run of the mill case involving a couple of low level gun smugglers that had ended in a car chase and a shootout. One of the perps got off a lucky shot before Chin took him down, the bullet grazing the inside of Steve’s thigh and taking a chunk of skin with it. He’d felt the sting, but hadn’t thought much of it at the time, more focused on the people shooting at him. They’d chased the smugglers to an empty warehouse by the docks, only a handful of blocks away from Grace’s school-- a fact Danny made  _ very _ clear he was not pleased about. After a startlingly short firefight, what with the weapons these guys had been hauling, they had the smugglers face down in varying states of injury with only two dead. “Book ‘em, Danno,” he said, tossing a cocky smile at his partner, who simply rolled his eyes with a huff, pulling his handcuffs from his pocket as he went. HPD took the smugglers into custody while Steve stepped into the dim of the warehouse. Wooden crates were stacked against the walls, a card table set up in the middle of the building with a half finished game scattered across the surface. 

 

“Why the  _ hell _ did it have to be guns near my  _ daughter’s school _ ?” Steve turned to see the blond detective standing by one of the crates, lid on the floor by his feet as he examined the contents. Steve joined him, adrenaline wearing off enough for him to feel the sting in his thigh and heat running down under his pant leg. He’d have to take care of that when he got home. Staring down into the crate, he whistled. “AK-47s. These guys were looking for a haul. Guess it’s good for us they didn’t wanna waste any of their merch on defending themselves.” He clapped the shorter man on the shoulder and started for the docks, adjusting his gait just enough to hide the limp he was starting to adopt. “Oh, hey!” he remarked, shooting Danny a glance over his shoulder. “You and Gracie still coming over for dinner tonight?”

 

“Yeah, yeah that’s the plan. I’m picking her up from school, I’ll take her home so she can change out of her uniform and then we’ll be over. Remember, you promised no pineapple!” 

 

Steve was still laughing when he made it back to his car. 

 

Few hours later found him sitting on his back porch, longboard in hand as he stared out over the waves. Grill was lit, getting hot so it’d be ready to throw hotdogs and hamburgers on when Danny and Grace arrived. He’d cleaned up the gouge from the bullet wound, bandaging it up before changing into a pair of cargo shorts and an old Navy t-shirt. He’d been lucky, couple inches over and it’d have hit his femoral artery. He felt himself slipping into a kind of null peace at the thought when he heard the front door open, accompanied by calls of “Uncle Steve, we’re here!” and “Hey, buddy! I brought some extra dogs and some marshmallows in case we wanted to do s’mores later!” Setting his beer to the side, he stood and stepped into the cool shade of the house to greet his guests, and was nearly bowled over by 92 pounds of excited pre-teen. “Uncle Steve! I brought my swimsuit and my football, do you think we can play after hotdogs?” Hoisting the excited girl into a big hug, and feeling his wound pull slightly in protest, he gave her a fake serious look, like he was deeply pondering her question. “You know? I don’t see why not. It’ll help us work off those hotdogs and hamburgers so we’ll have room for s’mores, won’t it!”

 

He set her back down on her feet and turned to greet the other adult. “Rachel says she has talked about this non-stop all week,” the blond said, twisting the top off the longboard he’d snagged from Steve’s fridge. “Hey monkey, why don’t you go ahead and put on your swimsuit while Uncle Steve goes and puts food on the grill, okay?” the dark haired little girl nodded, running up the stairs toward the guest bedroom, bag bouncing against her back as she went. “Hey, uh, you okay?” Danny asked, blue eyes concerned as he took a long swallow. Steve cocked a brow. “Yeah, fine. Why?” 

 

“Because, ah, you almost got shot? I saw the tear in your pant leg, Steven. But wait, that’s right. You’re Mr. Bullet-Proof-Super-SEAL, aren’t you. You feel no pain at all.” The look on Danny’s face was mocking, but Steve could see the genuine concern under the mask. He clasped the other man on the shoulder. “I’m fine, seriously. Barely grazed me. Now come on, Grace’ll be expecting food when she gets back down here, and if I’m taking her down to the beach, then  _ someone  _ has to be watching to make sure we don’t set our food on fire.” Shaking his head, the blond followed the ex-SEAL back out into the backyard, taking on the duty of unpackaging the meats so Steve could set them out on the prepped grill. Five minutes later, a 12-year-old in a neon purple one piece printed with yellow butterflies came bounding out, clutching an old, worn squishy pink football in her hands. “Uncle Steve, are you ready?”

 

Steve’s leg was on fire. He’d tried to stay shallow, tossing the ball inland to where Grace was waiting on the beach, but the tide had started coming in and even his best efforts couldn’t stop the waves. Before he knew it he was soaked to the hips and jogging in toward the beach as best he could, wet material clinging to his thighs. “What say we move this over toward Danno, ey, Gracie? See if he’ll join in the fun instead of just sitting there on the sidelines?” Luckily, the little girl nodded, hair flying as she took the ball and ran toward her dad. “Danno, come play with us!” she yelled, turning at the last second to launch the ball at an unprepared Steve, who’d paused a moment to get the muscles in his thigh back under cooperation. The ball went wide, forcing him to dive in order to keep it from getting lost in the trees, and he landed hard. His abused injury  _ screamed, _ forcing him to stay down a moment longer than he normally would have before he could bring himself back upright. “Are you alright, Uncle Steve?” he heard Grace ask. The pre-teen was standing close, having apparently run over when she saw the man fall. He gave her a grin. “Yeah, yeah I’m good. That was some throw, Gracie! Have you been practicing?” the girl didn’t look convinced, but to Steve’s relief before she could say anything, Danny was calling over to the two players. “Hey, monkey! Food’s ready, why don’t you come on over and we’ll keep playing after we eat, huh?”

 

Grace ran over to accept the plate offered to her while Steve rolled to his feet. He felt warmth against his thigh and knew he’d started bleeding again, he just hoped the wet bandage would keep doing its job for a little while longer. He looked up to see Grace bent close to her dad, mouth moving. “Hey, Danno? I think you should check on Uncle Steve later. He was walking kind of funny when he got out of the water, and when I went to see if he was okay, his leg was bleeding a little bit.” Grace’s voice was full of concern as she talked to her dad, and as she finished, those piercing, calculating blue eyes flicked over in Steve’s direction.  _ Shit.  _

 

Pasting a smile, he jogged over to them, shaking the sand from his hair. “Is that for me?” he asked, reaching for Grace’s plate jokingly. The mini-brunette giggled and pulled it away. “No, Uncle Steve. Danno has your plate!” Steve huffed out a chuckle and turned to the man at the grill. “Well, Danno, you heard the lady! Where’s mine?” Danny rolled his eyes, taking a plate with a hotdog and hamburger and walking toward the porch. “Get your own, you animal.” Grabbing a plate for himself, Steve missed the gaze that dropped briefly to his shorts--mostly dry now, but still sticking in places--before jumping back up and turning to his daughter, who’d watched the exchange with worried eyes. “So I was thinking,” Steve started, loading up his burger with condiments and pineapple, much to Danny’s chagrin when he’d seen it, but was interrupted by his partner. “Uh oh. You hear that, Monkey? Uncle Steve was thinking. You know nothing good could come of that.”

 

Steve tapped the back of the man’s head with his elbow before falling into the lounger next to him. “I was  _ thinking  _ that after this I’d light the firepit while we play some football and then when we were ready the graham crackers and chocolate are in the house. Sound good?” His idea was met by an enthusiastic cheer and a set of rolling eyes. He just smirked into his bottle, throat bobbing as he swallowed the lukewarm alcohol. 

 

They enjoyed their food to idle smalltalk, Grace telling them about what’s been going on in school, Danny talking about something his mom told him about last time they’d talked, and Steve tagged in on occasion with something he thought Grace might like, like the cool bird or butterfly he’d seen on a morning run, or that the last time he’d gone diving he’d come across a bale of sea turtles. As they finished their dinner, Steve took used plates and bottles in to the sink to wash up. He was just dropping the glass bottles into the recycling bin when he felt a presence behind him. “Crackers and chocolate bars are on the island,” he tossed over his shoulder as he shifted back to the sink to finish washing plates, adjusting his weight so that he could favor the leg that still stung from its salt bath. “I’m not here for the s’mores fixings, Steve.”  _ Danny. _ Steve tensed briefly before forcing himself to relax. “You here for a go container, then? Store up the rest of the hotdogs and hamburgers for later?” Danny invaded his bubble; Steve could feel the heat radiating off the man and swallowed hard. “Cut the crap,  _ Steven _ . You know why I’m in here.” When no immediate answer was forthcoming, he continued. “Grace says you were walking funny when you got out of the water, almost like you were limping. She also says she saw you bleeding when you made that stupid dive for the football. Now why would you be bleeding? Huh?”

 

Steve remained silent, wanting nothing more than to brush it off and head back outside, but knowing there was no way Danny would buy any of his excuses. He felt the blond shift behind him until he came into view in Steve’s peripheral. “That bozo earlier didn’t just catch your pant leg, did it.” Steve shook his head, throat burning. “Why didn’t you say anything, babe?” That tone of voice. He couldn’t stand that tone of voice. “Steven, look at me.” Danny’s words were soft but brokered no argument. Swallowing hard past the hot coal that had taken up residence in his esophagus, he turned to meet the bright blue eyes that could pierce him farther than any bullet. “Let me see, babe,” Danny said, taking a step closer. Steve backed up. “Nah, Danny. It’s fine. Doesn’t need stitches or anything, I bandaged it when I got back and I probably just stressed it. I’ll be fine.” Danny kept coming closer, though, and Steve didn’t like the look in his eyes. Pain radiated up his back as it collided with the counter behind him. Danny kept closing in until he had hands on either side of Steve’s torso, effectively trapping the taller man. Steve’s adams apple bobbed, wide eyes staring over the blond head as he fought the urge to shove him away and run. “Grace is, um… Grace is still outside waiting on those s’mores,” he tried. It didn’t work. Danny’s voice was low as he leaned in. “ _ Grace _ is the one who sent me in here in the first place. She has a book for school, a bag of marshmallows, and the rest of the hotdogs. She’ll be fine. You, on the other hand,” rough hands dropped to Steve’s hips, “need someone with a little sense to check out the wound you received and refuse to seek proper medical attention.” 

 

Before Steve could wrap his head around what was going on, mind too focused on the feel of Danny’s gun-calloused hands against his hips, the shorter man was sinking to his knees, one hand sliding under the cuff of his left pant leg to press around the bandage. “Danny, what--” Steve was cut off by the piercing stare being directed up at him. A stare that all but demanded that he keep his mouth shut and let the man check on him. Fingers prodded the damp, salt-stiff bandage, finding the knot and swiftly untying it, bandage unwinding like Steve’s last hopes that all this was just some messed up dream; that the man he cared about more than anyone wasn’t about to discover just how screwed up his partner really was. The red stained tail of the bandage fell away, revealing the angry red of Steve’s bullet wound among the paled lines from years of self abuse. Danny’s breath hissed through his teeth, and Steve closed his eyes. He may have survived everything the Navy threw his way, but he  _ knew _ he wasn’t strong enough to look Danny in the eye and see the emotions that would be brewing there. 

 

Cold fingers, like Death’s touch, traced the varying lengths and varying ages, pushing the material of his shorts higher in order to trace their path. “Babe, what is this?” Danny asked, voice holding more than a hint of concern. When no answer was forthcoming, he pressed his fingers around the bullet wound, drawing a surprised hiss of pain from the upright man. “Steve,  _ Steven.  _ Look at me.” Slowly, cautiously, Steve opened his eyes, looking down into the blank mask of his partner’s face. “Care to explain this to me, Steven?” trying to swallow past the lump in his throat, Steve just shook his head. Puffing out his cheeks and huffing in exasperation, Danny let his gaze drop back to the muscular legs in front of him. On a hunch, he pushed up the other pant leg. With the exception of a few that looked like no more than papercuts, or like Steve had waded through a briar patch, these were old, silvery with age as they criss crossed down his inner thigh. A distant part of Danny’s brain remarked that they made the tanned skin look almost like a waffle until he noticed that something was odd about the ones that ran vertically down the well defined skin. Some of these still held a pinkish sheen, the lines overlapping themselves, almost like…. Almost like they’d been traced, reopened. Long enough ago for them to have healed back, but definitely recent enough. 

 

A tremor ran through the body he was observing and he looked up to see the brunet with head bowed and eyes closed, almost like he was praying.  _ Praying for what?  _ For all this to not be real? For Danny to not be mad? A wave of sadness welled up inside the blond’s chest and he pushed himself to his feet, fingers coming up under the scarred man’s chin until he was forced to meet his gaze. “Listen to me, okay? You are going to go upstairs, and you are going to lay down and I am going to take a look at that bullet wound. You hear me? I will meet you up there, but first I have to go speak to Grace for a second. I will meet you up there, so don’t do anything stupid. You hear me? I’ll be there in just a minute.” He waited until wet green eyes met his with a confirming nod before stepping back, letting the ex-SEAL move around me and toward the stairs before heading out to talk to Grace. He needed to apologize for making her wait and having to cut short s’mores time. Right now her Uncle Steve needed him, so it would probably be better if she called her mom to come pick her up and she’d drop off the stuff left in Steve’s spare bedroom later. 

 

The brunet was sitting on the edge of his bed, head buried in his hands when Danny stepped through the doorway. Hearing his approach, Steve looked up, eyes shining with something Danny could only identify as guilt and something akin to terror. He never,  _ ever _ wanted to see that look in the other man’s face again. “Rachel’s coming to get her. I told her you weren’t feeling well and that we’d plan to do s’mores another time.” Hearing this, Steve went to stand. “Danny, I am  _ so  _ sorry. I know this was your weekend with her, and she was looking forward to this and I--” Danny cut him off with a shove, pushing him back onto the bed. “Ah uh. You don’t get to do the talking right now. No, right now you are going to let me take care of that wound before it gets infected, and then we’re going to talk about the mess you made of the inside of your legs. Got it? Good. Now strip.” If the moment hadn’t been so serious, Danny could have laughed at the almost comical way Steve’s eyes widened at the order. “You heard me. I wanna make sure there’s nothing else you aren’t telling me about. Now strip.”

 

Knowing it would be useless to argue, Steve stood, shucking his shorts and tossing them to the side before sitting back down on the bed, feeling more exposed than he ever had in his life. Danny knelt on the bed next to him, one strong hand tracing Steve’s spine as the other slid over the lifetime of marks that made this man who he was. Thin as a hair, the silver marks were ancient, tracing a timeline from wild child climbing trees and hiking to go see petroglyphs, to football star, to SEAL, to the reckless head of Five-0. Danny could admit to himself that he saw nothing newer than the scars he received from torture in Afghanistan. “Lay down,” he ordered, pushing against the broad shoulders that trembled just slightly under his touch. Steve complied, laying back against the stark white sheets, and Danny found he wasn’t entirely surprised to see that the man had closed his eyes. Brushing fingers across the white knuckles of a clenched fist, he watched the shiver travel across the muscular body before the dark haired man visibly forced himself to relax, fists unclenching to lay flat on the mattress. 

 

Steve’s arms were toned, covered in the silver remnants of bullet wounds and fights won, tanned skin covering cords of muscle strong enough to drag their owner over whatever obstacle he decided to take on. With the exception of a few fine lines left over from tortures and fights, his torso was relatively void of marks. Danny wasn’t surprised, though. With the number of times he’d seen the handsome man shirtless, he was sure he’d have noticed something. Then his gaze and hands traveled further south, and Danny found it, a relatively small, puckered X just to the right of Steve’s belly button. Unconsciously, one hand traveled to the near identical wound on Danny’s abdomen. “Oh Steve….” he couldn’t help but breathe, eyes burning just slightly. When he’d first met the man, he could have sworn the SEAL wasn’t capable of feeling guilt or shame, or really any human emotions at all. He’d learned since then, but even he was unprepared for the amount of guilt this man must have been carrying around with him after that accident.  _ Enough guilt to give himself a reminder, _ a part of him said, a part that sounded suspiciously like Rachel. He stood, moving between Steve’s spread legs so he could take in what he’d seen part of earlier. The sight made his stomach twist painfully. 

 

The prone man’s thighs were a mess of scar tissue, lines littering from the spot where his leg met his hip, all the way down to the crook of his knee, layered over one another in many cases until it was almost one big mass. The ones on his right leg were old, silver and hard except for the pink of the vertical ones. Memory rose up of a funeral several years back, and the way the man had stood almost awkwardly and winced whenever he’d had to come to attention.  _ These must have been for Freddie, _ he thought, tracing light fingers over the likely numbed scar tissue and feeling the muscles beneath it tremble with a repressed shiver.  _ So not completely numb, _ he thought, filing that away for later. His attention shifted to the other leg, this one not nearly as mutilated, and all relatively old with acception to the bullet graze that had started weeping just slightly. Sight reminding him of his real purpose for getting Steve up here, he gave a bony hip a sharp pinch with orders to not move and inch before turning and stepping into the immaculate bathroom. 

 

Steve’s medicine cabinet was surprisingly well stocked, a testament to how many times this man likely hurt himself doing something reckless and instead of seeking proper treatment had decided to take care of it himself. Quickly locating the antibacterial cream and a nearly depleted roll of gauze bandage, he grabbed them along with a dampened washcloth and headed back into the bedroom. Ever the soldier, Steve was still where Danny had left him, eyes closed and fingers tangled into the bedsheets, almost like he was afraid Danny would ream his ass for what he’d done. Shaking his head and cursing John and Doris McGarrett for what they’d put their son through, he set the supplies on the bedside table and tapped at the closest knee. “Scoot back some and bend your left leg for me. I need to be able to get to that wound before whatever nasties lurk in that cesspool you call an ocean can take up residence.” To his concern, the crack about the brunet’s favorite pastime didn’t even elicit so much as a smirk as the man in question shifted himself more toward the center of the bed, crooking his left leg as he was told and giving Danny an even better view of the scars that covered the tanned appendage. Huffing out a sigh, Danny took the washcloth and knelt on the bed, dipping mattress rolling the other man closer to him. Steve didn’t even flinch when the cloth came into contact with his open wound. 

 

“You know, babe, I’m not entirely convinced this thing doesn’t need stitches. I mean, it looks pretty deep and if I were a sane man, I’d be packing you up and taking you to the hospital right now. Fortunately for you, you and Rachel have stolen all my sanity. So here I am playing Macgyver to your crazy stubborn ass.” To his relief, a dry chuckle reached his ears. “Hospitals ask too many questions,” Steve continued, voice softer than Danny thought he’d ever heard it. “They’d take one look at me and I’d find myself in a padded cell.” The amount of self loathing in those words had Danny putting down the washcloth and staring at his partner’s face. He saw pain and guilt, but he also saw fear. “I can’t go away, Danny. They’ll stick me in there and pump me so full of drugs that I won’t even be able to move, and I’ll be stuck there because all those drugs will do is trap me in my own head with all the memories that are responsible for  _ these _ ,” he gestured blindly at the scars, nearly smacking Danny with the violence of the gesture, “and I’ll never be able to get away from them. I’ll be stuck in my own personal Hell surrounded by white and unable to move.”

 

Danny’s brows reached for his hairline at Steve’s speech. “Wow, babe. Just….wow.” he picked up the cloth again, making one or two more swipes across the wound that was already looking less angry before tossing it in the general direction of the laundry hamper and grabbing up the cream. This time Steve did wince as the thick ointment came into contact with raw flesh. “Babe,” Danny started, casting a glance up at that clenched jaw line, “you need help….” His statement was met by a wet chuckle and he was more than a little startled to see tears leaking out of the corners of Steve’s tightly shut eyes, like he’d been trying to keep them back but they’d finally broken through. “You know how many times since we met that you’ve told me that I needed help?” he chuckled again. “A lot, Danno. Like probably at least twenty times in the first week alone.” Danny joined in on the laughter that he could tell was bordering on hysterical as he exchanged the cream for the bandage, wiping his fingers on the edge of the sheet. Steve could always wash them later, anyway. “I’m serious, babe,” he said, making sure the bandage covered the space snuggly, but with enough room to breathe. “Have you talked to anyone about this?” He was met with a headshake. “No, Danno. I told you what would happen if I did. They’d lock me up, take away my badge and call me a danger to myself and others. I can’t…. I can’t let that happen, Danny. I just can’t.” There was so much pain in just those last three words alone that Danny felt his own heart breaking all over again. 

  
Stretching out beside the taller man, he wrapped him in his arms best he could, burying the wet face in his shoulder. “Listen to me, babe. I would never,  _ never  _ let something like that happen, you hear me? I’d never let you get locked up in a place that would take away who you are, but babe, you gotta talk to somebody. I already told you, I know a guy. We could make you an appointment to just talk, I’d even come with you if you want, and we’ll get t

hrough this. Me, Kono, Chin, Gracie, we’re your family, babe. We’ve put up with you this far, you really think we’d abandon you just because you can’t always be strong all the time?” Steve was still for a long time, but Danny knew he hadn’t fallen asleep. He ran one hand up and down the warm back while the other gently cupped the back of the man’s head, fingers buried in dark, salt-gummed strands, rubbing gentle circles into his scalp. Slowly, slowly, he felt the man relax and received a nod of affirmation. “Was that a yes you’ll see my person? Or a yes, you actually thought we’d leave your stubborn ass?” Hot, damp breath huffed across his neck at his question. “Both?” was the hesitant reply, body in his grasp seeming to curl in on itself like it was waiting on reprimand. 

 

“Babe, look at me,” Danny said, pressing his forehead into the dark locks. When Steve didn’t immediately comply, the blond sighed and pushed at a hunched shoulder. “Steve,  _ Steven.  _ Look at me.” Reluctantly, the taller man pulled away from his hiding place and met Danny’s concerned blue gaze. “Babe, you’re the big brother Kono never had, the only person who’d stand by Chin for a long time, Gracie  _ adores _ you, and I… babe, I love you. I love you past what is probably a sane, reasonable amount. How could you ever think we’d just abandon you?” Steve just shook his head, gaze dropping down to an old stain on Danny’s worn Newark PD t-shirt. “I thought…” his voice faded before he could finish the thought. Keeping one hand on Steve’s back, Danny slid his other around to lightly grip his slightly stubbly chin, thumb brushing that full bottom lip as he tilted his head up. He waited until green eyes met his before speaking. “I’ve said it countless times before, and I will say it again, Steven. You are an idiot.” Then, before the other man could pull away or respond, Danny was leaning forward and pressing his lips to Steve’s. They were chapped and tasted like salt and beer, but Danny would swear to his dying day that it was the best first kiss he’d ever had. 

 

Steve had frozen upon initial contact, but after a moment’s hesitation he was leaning into the kiss, a startled, needy whine rising in his throat. He chased Danny’s lips when the blond man pulled away, all but growling in frustration when he was met with only a chuckle in response. “Not going anywhere, babe,” the blue eyed man said even as he pulled away from Steve’s clinging grasp and shifting to the edge of the bed. He was only gone long enough to shed his shorts and t-shirt before crawling back to where the dark haired man lay and tugging the blanket up over them. “You’re still overdressed,” Steve mumbled, plucking at the waistband of Danny’s boxers, eyes growing heavy as he curled into the warmth of the shorter man. Danny wrapped his arms around the emotionally spent man, nuzzling into the top of his hair. He smelled of salt and smoke and, unsurprisingly, pineapples. For whatever reason, Danny didn’t find it all that unpleasant. “There will be time for that later, babe. Right now it’s time to do the smart thing for once and get some sleep.” Steve only hummed, breath evening out as he settled into his partner’s arms. The last thought to cross his mind was  _ we’ve got all the time in our lives…” _

 

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Steve came awake slowly, sunlight filtering in through the window casting a cheery glow around the room. He’d been having an amazing dream, which was odd because he didn’t normally sleep long or deep enough to dream. He’d been on a beach, nothing really unusual about that, only Danny had been with him. They’d been stretched out on a blanket watching the sun sinking toward the waves, legs tangled together with Danny’s head resting against Steve’s chest. The New Jersey detective looked relaxed, dressed in nothing but a pair of board shorts and a Hawaii Red Dirt t-shirt. Steve himself was only dressed in his shorts, legs stretched out in front of them as he leaned back on his elbows. “We should do this again, babe,” Danny had said, tilting his head back to kiss the underside of Steve’s jaw. The brunet had let his head fall back to allow the blond better access, allowing himself to be pushed back into the blanket as the shorter man continued peppering his neck and shoulders with kisses. “Love you so much, babe,” he’d muttered in between each peck, and the only response Steve could muster was a groan as one calloused hand trailed down his chest before slipping under the waistband of Steve’s shorts. 

 

The dream had dissolved as Steve hit climax, the feel of Danny’s lips on his following him into the waking world. He stretched, feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time, and felt the pull of his bullet wound on his thigh. Peppered memories came back of the night before, the case, the grill out with Grace and Danny, Danny cornering him in the kitchen…. The rest of the events came back like a tsunami, crashing over him and turning that warm feeling he’d just had ice cold.  _ Danny had found out about his scars…  _ He sat up, looking around the room. He was naked beneath the sheet, and he was alone. He swallowed, trying not to let the sorrow well up and choke him.  _ Of course he wouldn’t want to stay, _ Steve thought to himself, hands wrapping themselves in the sheet until he started to lose feeling in them.  _ Why would he want to stay with someone so messed up?  _ So wrapped up in the morose thoughts was he that he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until their owner was being carried into the bedroom. “Just for the record, this coffee is butter free because frankly, that’s just gross and I could not in good conscious kiss you after letting you drink that concoction.”

 

The sound of Danny’s voice broke Steve from his thoughts, the brunet turning toward the door so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Danny was standing by the dresser, two cups of coffee in his hands. He was watching Steve with one eyebrow raised, like he was expecting the man to say something. When Steve didn’t, Danny walked to the edge of the bed, leaning down to hand the brunet a cup of coffee fixed just the way he liked it (sans the butter) and landing a kiss on the dark stubbled cheek in the process. Coffee in hand, Steve tensed at the touch briefly, but long enough for the blond to pull back with a frown. “You okay, babe? Cuz if you’re having any second thoughts…” Eyes wide, Steve shook his head quickly, nearly tipping the coffee cup over in his lap in his haste. “NO! No, Danno, no. I’m not. I was just surprised, that’s all. I thought… I thought last night had been a dream. I woke up and you weren’t here, and I thought you’d decided you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.” Danny took a seat on the edge of the bed, taking a sip of his coffee before responding. “Babe, we  _ really _ need to work on your esteem issues. I  _ love  _ you, okay? I woke up before you, so I decided to go ahead and make coffee. While it was brewing I got a call from Gracie wanting to make sure you were feeling better. I meant to be here when you woke up, I did. I didn’t expect you to start freaking out on me because I wasn’t here.” 

 

Steve stared down into his mug, shame at his reaction burning up the back of his neck.  _ That was stupid, _ he thought to himself, taking a tentative sip.  _ Of course he wouldn’t have left. Just because everyone else left doesn’t mean  _ he  _ would. He’s stuck with you this long, hasn’t he? _ Steve was so focused on his inner monologuing and the secrets of the universe held in his coffee mug that he didn’t feel the mattress shifting, feel Danny coming closer, until the blond was taking the mug from his hands, placing them both on the bedside table and practically crawling into the ex-SEAL’s lap. “Stop that,” the blond said, tilting his head until he could look into those forest green eyes. “You’re thinking too much again, and it’s gonna give you aneurism face if you don’t stop.” The good natured ribbing had the desired effect, drawing a huffed laugh from the brunet. Leaning forward to capture his lips in a warm kiss, Danny slowly eased his weight forward until he was pressing Steve into the mattress, fingers tangling in hair as they explored each other’s mouths. After several long moments of languid kisses, Danny pulled back to meet lust blown green eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Steve. Okay? I love you, and I’m going to keep proving that to you.” Throat burning with emotion, the brunet nodded back. “I love you too, Danno,” he replied, voice surprisingly steady before he was tugging on the back of the shorter man’s neck, drawing him back into another kiss.

 

Later they’d have to talk; about them, about Steve’s pasts, about the therapist Danny knew. They’d make an appointment then, but for right now, there wasn’t a need for words. Steve McGarrett had a secret, but now he knew he didn’t have to carry it alone.

 

~End~


	2. Danny

For Danny, it started when he was fourteen, and it had scared him. It was almost Christmas break, and there was a guy at school who’d bullied him incessantly since his first week of school, making fun of everything from Danny’s height (he barely topped five foot back then) to the way he dressed, and how well he did at his classes. His tormentor was older, a junior on the school’s football team, and popular. More popular than half the school’s  _ seniors _ . As the months progressed, the bullying turned from verbal to physical and Stella was picking him up with new bruises on his arms, scuffs on his knees and elbows, and on one occasion in late October, a black eye and bloody nose. “What happened to you?” she’d asked when he climbed into the car. “Dodgeball in PE.” Was the mumbled response. By Thanksgiving, Danny had taken to hiding in the bathrooms and getting to class just before the tardy bell. He’d also started receiving emails. He’d told his parents about what was happening, and they’d then gone to the principal, but that didn’t mean the bullying stopped. If anything, they just got worse, taunts for being a pint sized nerd morphing into taunts of “snitch” and “crybaby” and threats that if he did it again and cost him his full ride after graduation, then Danny would be sorry. By Christmas, Danny was done. He passed his finals, sacrificing sleep for studying and spending any remaining time plotting it. 

 

He’d thought about how his family would react. They’d be sad, but they’d have Stella to help take care of them, and it wasn’t like he was the only boy. Matty was only 9, lots of chances for him to grow up and be the prized son. Bridget was young enough she might not even remember him when she gets older. He’ll just be someone their parents tell stories about with sad smiles, like they did with Uncle Rob, Danny’s dad’s brother who’d died in a car accident long before Danny or Stella were born. He brought home all his things from his locker, claiming he wanted to go through it so he could reuse stuff the following semester when Stella shot him a funny look as he loaded it all into the back seat. 

 

Danny planned it for right before New Years so that Christmas wouldn’t be ruined for the rest of them. He smiled for family photos, laughed at their yearly Christmas movie, and thanked his parents and siblings for the presents brought to him by “Santa”. Then, on December 29th, he pulled the knife he’d snuck out of the kitchen last time he’d done dishes out from under his mattress. He’d do it in his bathtub, easier to clean that way, so he went to the bathroom, stripped down, and stepped into the tub in nothing but his boxers. He was a teenager, after all, and nothing was more embarrassing than being seen completely naked by your family and a bunch of strangers, even if you were dead. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down as he prepared. He’d done his research ahead of time and decided the brachial artery would do. Less dramatic than slitting his wrists, and the idea of severing his femoral artery or slicing his throat made him wince for two completely different reasons. No, the brachial would do nicely here. Taking a deep breath to steady his trembling hand, he set the edge of the steak knife to the soft flesh and dug down as he drew it diagonally from shoulder to elbow. 

 

Or at least he tried to. 

 

It hurt. It hurt a lot more than he’d been expecting it to, and he could only make it a third of the way down his arm before he was dropping the knife into the bathtub, blade catching and nicking the side of his foot before clattering down by the drain, but he didn’t notice. Blue eyes were blown wide with panic as he stared at the blood running down his arm and spilling all over his lap. It had felt like he’d been set on fire and then tossed into the Arctic Ocean before being stung by a swarm of bees. Reality set in and he started to panic at what he’d just tried to do. He tried to stand, tried to clamor out of the tub so he could find the first aid kit, but there was so much blood from his arm and the accidental cut to his foot, and the bottom of the tub was so slick with it that the moment he tried to stand his feet were going out from under him and he was crashing back down, limbs banging hard against the edges and sending shampoo and body wash bottles tumbling down on top of him. He winced at the noise, panic rising inside him as his eyes started to burn. What if it woke his parents? They couldn’t find out! They’d be heartbroken! He’d be sent to the hospital and the doctors would insist on keeping him there! What about school? What about his friends?

 

He was still flailing wildly, so wrapped in his panic and the knocking around of plastic bottles that he didn’t hear the bathroom door opening, but he did hear the whisper-shout of “Oh my  _ God! _ ” He looked up to see Stella standing there with a hand over her mouth, having closed the door behind her. Blue eyes a shade or two darker than Danny’s took in the scene before her, wide and startled and beginning to brim with tears. Realizing how it must look, the only thing Danny could think to say was “ _ Please  _ don't tell mom and dad!” before bursting into tears himself, breath leaving him in choked hiccups. Stella didn’t say anything, instead reaching down to help him out of the tub and setting him down on the lid of the toilet, making him press a towel to his arm while she dug around under the sink for the bandages. Facing him again, she took his arm and, with surprising gentleness, cleaned the blood away to better see the wound. The edges were jagged, but it wasn’t particularly deep and she managed to take care of it with some gauze and an ace bandage before crouching and cleaning up his foot. The wound was bloody but luckily nothing more than a slice and she stuck one of Matty’s robot bandages on it. Then she turned to the bathtub, picking up and putting back the bottles that had fallen before turning on the water and rinsing away the evidence of what had almost happened. 

 

By the time the last traces were disappearing down the drain, he’d managed to calm his hysterical sobs to intermittent sniffles and hiccups, watching as his big sister cleaned up the mess he’d made with an unreadable, stony expression. “Are you gonna tell mom and dad?” he asked, sounding a lot like Bridget after she’d just had a nightmare and wet the bed. Stella replaced the shower head and turned to him, arms crossed over her Mickey Mouse nightshirt. “I should,” she started, and Danny flinched, “but I won’t.” He relaxed for the briefest moment, looking up to offer her a timid, grateful smile that quickly disappeared when he saw her face. She was trying to look stern and angry, but her eyes were wet and he could see the way her chin trembled just slightly. She was trying not to start crying, and that fact alone made Danny feel lower than dogshit. “I’m really,  _ really  _ sorry, Stells,” he said, attention focused solely on the red and purple robots marching across the outside of his foot. He heard her sigh before kneeling, coming into his field of vision with hands on his knees. There was still remnants of blood around her fingernails. “What were you  _ thinking,  _ Danny?” 

 

All he could do was shake his head, refusing to look up as the tears made tracks down his face again. “I just got tired of it, Stells. The bully…. The school didn’t really do anything about him, and after mom and dad talked to the principal they just got worse. He told me that if I cost him his scholarship then he was gonna take it out on me, and then I was getting emails about how I think I’m better than everyone else because my grades are good even though I’m only a freshman, and that I should stop trying to fit in so hard and that no one would miss me, and I….” he broke down, breaths stuttering out of him as his frustrations from the past five months found their own outlets. Stella didn’t say anything, just pulled him down into her arms and held him until he was able to breathe again. “It scared you, didn’t it,” she finally asked when he was sure he could answer. He nodded, wiping at his face and meeting her gaze. She nodded in affirmation. “I want you to remember that next time you think of trying something like that again, okay? Good. And you know you can always come talk to me if you need to. I was a freshman once too, I remember what it was like. No one is worth killing yourself over, you hear me, Daniel?” She held his gaze until he nodded before standing and tugging him to his feet. “Good, now come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

 

He was tucked beneath his thick comforter, already dozing off when he realized that he had no idea where the knife had gone. 

 

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Danny did his best to put that night behind him. No one mentioned blood or the knife, so he could only assume Stella had gotten rid of the evidence, and neither of his parents mentioned anything about the racket he was sure he’d made in the bathroom (he had no idea that his big sister had suspected something was up and had laid awake well into the wee hours every night since the start of break, door cracked open so she could see if Danny did anything, and that she was the only one to hear the noise from the bathroom). At the start of the spring semester, he’d decided he was going to reinvent himself. He still did well in school, mostly so his parents wouldn’t think something had happened, but he no longer strived for straight A’s, instead coasting on B’s and the occasional C. He changed his style too, using gel in his hair and going more for “cool but casual”. He was still shorter than most of the other kids, but he used it to his advantage, discovering that ladies loved a short boy who could sweet talk and had the moves. The bully left him alone, keeping his scholarship and graduating a semester early only to blow out his knee his first game, and Danny graduated and went on to earn a Bachelors in Criminal Justice with a business minor before joining the Law Enforcement. He was stationed at the Newark Police Department as a beat cop where he was introduced to a Brunette British Bombshell named Rachel. 

 

He worked his way up NPD as his relationship with Rachel grew, and before long they were getting married and he was being promoted to Detective where he was partnered with an African American spitfire who could give as good as she got and didn’t take shit from anyone. He liked her the moment he met her. They worked well together, pushing when the other pulled and bouncing off one another in a tandem. Then came that day in 2001, where they’d just been on patrol same as usual and a drug dealer hiding out in an abandoned warehouse decided they were getting too close. Danny had been on the phone with Rachel at the time, discussing baby names while his wife waited for the ultrasound technician to arrive. Going into the warehouse had been Grace’s idea, and it proved to be one that would cut her life off at the age of 26. 

 

They’d been beaten, the dealer wanting to know how they’d found him and not willing to take the truth--it had been an accident--at face value. In the process Grace was shot in the gut, and Danny was forced to watch the feisty woman he called partner choke to death on her own blood, dying in the slowest, most painful way possible while the dealer and his thugs just watched with matching looks of glee on their faces. Danny wanted to hurl. The sirens had been a godsend, and Danny sent up prayers of thanks to whomever was listening that NPD had evidently found out they were in trouble and sent backup. He got himself free, taking out the dealer and his thugs, but it was too late for Grace. Half delirious with pain and grief, he rushed out to meet the ambulances, but they kept on going. Behind him, the sky glowed orange as flames belched thick black smoke into the air. Help wasn’t going to be coming for a while. He called Rachel, and told her they needed to name their new baby girl Grace.

 

He waited hours for an ambulance, EMTs harried and strung out from everything they’d just witnessed, and caught it far enough in to be able to catch a taxi home. He was in a daze, unsure of how he even made it in through his front door, let alone all the way to his bathroom. His shirt was gone, discarded when the medics patched him up with what little supplies they had left and he was left staring at his shirtless reflection, white bandages not standing out much against his waxy complexion. His eyes looked empty, hollow, the blue dulled down until they were the kind of grey you saw on the cement of abandoned buildings. Or the stones in a graveyard. He looked down at his arm, at the scar that had long ago turned silvery even if it never quite lost its raised texture, and wondered for the first time in many,  _ many  _ years if this time he’d actually be able to do it. He dug his folding knife out of his pants pocket, having recovered it while waiting on the EMT to arrive. He flicked it open and set it to his arm, picking up where he’d left off last time. It still hurt, but this time grief and adrenaline worked to numb the pain and he made it to the crook of his arm, blood welling up and spattering against the sink. He raised the blade again, this time making a more horizontal cut so that it resembled a bit of a funky plus sign. He made another one, the pain coursing through him and working to burn away the haze he’d been under since he’d seen Grace killed. He would have kept going but just as he was pressing the tip into the crook of his arm, his phone rang. The caller ID showed it to be Rachel. 

 

The knife slipped through his fingers and thunked against the porcelain of the sink as he stared down at the red that had painted his arm shoulder to fingertip and all over the counter.  _ He had a daughter to live for… _ he thought to himself, gaze sliding up to meet the ones staring back at him.  _ Grace will live on in that little girl, and you need to be around to see it.  _ Not looking away from those blue eyes that were finally starting to show signs of life, he reached over and tapped the answer button and the speaker button, bloody fingerprints pixelating the screen beneath. “Hey, babe. Ready for me to come pick you up?”

 

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If someone were to ask him what had happened, he’d only be able to shake his head and reply with an “I honestly couldn’t say.” They’d been happy, Grace was being raised knowing her parents loved her and Danny made every effort to be home in time for dinner, and to not drag work along with him. For nearly ten years it was perfect, but then something happened, and as much as Danny spent the months that followed wracking his brain, he for the life of him couldn’t figure out what. He’d thought they were perfect, and then Rachel had come to him telling him she was leaving, that she wanted a divorce. That she couldn’t take being the wife of a cop anymore, that the pressure and the wondering was too much. Danny begged, pleaded with her not to go, asking what he’d done, what he could do to make her stay, but it didn’t work. Within a month she was gone, and she’d taken Grace with her. 

 

Danny did his best to hold it together, meeting with his lawyer and doing his best to balance his job with the necessary court appointments. The custody battle came first, and Rachel was awarded full custody, the court decided a cop who worked all hours couldn’t properly care for a 9-year-old little girl. Danny got visiting rights for every other week at first, but then Rachel petitioned the court to cut down visitations to the weekends. She didn’t think it safe for Grace to be around him, and when his divorce attorney called him up and told him, he almost dropped the phone.  _ She was going to take Grace away for good, he was going to lose his baby girl, the last memory he had from his spitfire partner.  _ He hung up the phone, letting it slip from his hands to clatter against the countertop of the tiny apartment he’d moved into during the separation. As it was he only got to see Grace when she wasn’t at school. He’d get to pick her up, but Rachel was always there Sunday evening, honking the car to let them know she was waiting instead of coming to the door and picking Grace up herself. 

 

The attorney had told him Rachel was wanting to reduce his visitations to every other weekend, saying that Grace wasn’t properly doing her homework when staying over at Danny’s, even though Danny sat with her and  _ made sure  _ she got her homework done every night before they had dinner. Rachel’s argument was absolute  _ bullshit _ , but Danny doubted there’d be anything he could do about it. Rachel had family money, and if what Grace said was correct, a new businessman boyfriend who was  _ very  _ well off. She could afford to pay the attorneys that would get her what she wanted. As the facts sunk in, Danny felt his back hit the wall and he slid down to the hard floor. Three months ago he’d been on top of the world. He had a beautiful daughter, a loving wife, and a job that made him feel like he was doing some good in the world. Now, he still had his job, but his wife had left him and taken his little girl with her, and by the speed her relationship with that businessman had progressed, Danny had to wonder whether or not the British Bombshell he’d married had been with him while she was still with Danny. Maybe those nights he worked way too late, coming home for only a few hours sleep before having to head back to work, complaints of him having just gotten home, or if he’ll be home for dinner ringing in his ears all the way there. 

 

Danny’s mind was spinning, the already small room seeming to grow smaller as he fought to breathe. His girls were the reason he’d not ended it years ago, the day a part of him died in that warehouse with his partner. If they left, what was his reason any more. 

 

He tried to get to his feet, flailing when his legs weren’t agreeing to hold him and knocking his beer off the countertop. The glass shattered against the tile, sending shards skidding across the floor along with the foaming amber liquid. His eyes watched the display in slight mesmerizing, fluorescent light shining off the pieces like they were ice floating in an alcoholic sea. He must have had more than he’d thought, if he was waxing poetic about a mess that was going to need cleaning. He went to stand again, but his loafers slipped in the spill and sending him back down hard, red mixing with the amber as broken shards bit into his hand. He picked it up with a hiss, staring at the shards sticking out of his palm.  _ None too small I can’t take care of, _ he thought, gaze sliding from the mess of his hand to the mess of the floor. There, in the middle of the mess, was a shard of broken bottle about three inches long. It must have come from the side, because it was long but curved with jagged edges on one end, but the rest having broken clean and straight. Like watching a film, he reached out with his injured hand to pick the piece up, other hand rising to unbutton his shirt. It was stained and smelled of beer anyway.

 

Shed of his shirt, he set the piece against his upper arm, watching the contrast between skin and skin under glass. Like he was a statue, or a museum exhibit. He dug the tip into the skin, watching blood smear across the surface and was reminded of the microscope slides they’d looked at in biology back in high school. He dug it into his skin again, not even really feeling the sting of it, instead watching the blood run down and mix with the mess of beer and glass on the floor, running between his fingers and over his wrist, hand burning like he’d fallen into a stinging nettle bush. Glass was a lot trickier, not as thin and sharp as a piece of metal, it was thick, sharp edges separated by the thickness of the piece, but it did the trick. The glass was beginning to slip in his hand, so he tightened his grip, feeling the embedded shards press in deeper, crunching against the larger piece. The piece slipped against his skin, and he jabbed himself in the tender flesh just under his armpit. The pain raked against his ribcage and drew a startled gasp from his lips. The shard slipped, splashing into the puddle beneath him. He should probably clean that up before it left a stain. 

 

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Rachel and Stan got married. Danny heard about it from Grace, who’d been a flowergirl and said the wedding had been really big with lots of flowers and fancy decorations. Then he heard they were moving to Hawaii--to the other fucking side of the  _ country _ \-- because he’d gotten a business deal. They were taking his baby away from him, and he’d be lucky if they let him see her for Thanksgiving or Christmas. So he followed them. He requested a transfer to the Honolulu police department and followed them, because that was the only way he’d be able to see his daughter. 

 

To say the island was like a foreign country was an understatement. It was hotter than hell for one, averaging 92 most days and it was October. Then there were the people. Native Islanders would give him strange looks, whispering “haole” behind his back or to each other right in front of him. He didn’t care. He wasn’t going to sacrifice his professional attire for the way he saw other cops in the PD dress. His new partner’s name was Meka Hanamoa, and he was the first person in the entire pineapple infested hellhole to make him feel welcome. He’d told Danny right off the bat that he liked him because the New Jersey detective brought a fresh perspective to an island that could be a little set in its ways. He started inviting Danny out for drinks after work, or to his house when his wife was going to cook something local. They became fast friends, and Danny was grateful for that. It was good to have someone on the island who knew him and liked him. He still saw Gracie every other weekend, bringing her back to his tiny little one bedroom where they watched TV, did their homework, ate take-out when Danny couldn’t find the time to go grocery shopping, and shared the pull out couch at night. 

 

For six months, things were going well. Then they got a call about a hostage situation at the house of a retired cop. By the time they could get there, though, John McGarrett was dead, and any trace of his killer was gone. 

 

Danny had never gotten the chance to know the man, he’d left the force about a year before Danny had moved to the island, but from what he’d heard, he’d been a great cop and his presence was going to be sincerely missed. His son would be flying in within the next few days to take possession of the body and hold a funeral. 

 

Meka took the death hard. He’d worked with the deceased Sergeant when he’d first joined the force, and had considered the man a mentor and a friend. That night, the men had gone to one of the local bars and Meka had gotten smashed. Danny had poured him into a taxi before midnight, calling his wife, Amy, to let her know what had happened that day, and to make sure Billy was fast asleep so he wouldn’t have to see his daddy in such a degenerate state. Danny had only had a couple beers, wanting to make sure his partner didn’t overdo it in his grief, so he drove himself back to that little one bedroom apartment and wondered why someone would take hostage and kill a retired police sergeant. 

 

The next day he met one Steven J. McGarrett.

 

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He couldn’t believe it. Rachel wanted to take Grace away completely. He’d done  _ everything  _ he could to protect her when they were at that football game. He hid her in the bathroom, and she was the first one he looked for when the shooting was over so how  _ dare  _ Rachel think he wasn’t responsible, that it wasn’t safe around him. Even when they’d been married, Danny had  _ made sure  _ work never came home with him. Sometimes that meant later hours at the office, but he made sure they never had to deal with it. What did Rachel think, that he  _ planned  _ to have a shootout at the football game on the weekend he had Grace. 

 

He got the call from his lawyer while following a lead with Steve, and were it not for the Navy SEAL in the car with him, he’d have pulled over and broken down completely. He barely saw Grace as it was, Rachel usually taking her away on breaks to go visit her family in England or visit Stan’s family. He’d get her for a few hours the day before, but that was it. She was growing fast, and before long she’d be wanting to hang out with friends on the weekends instead of with her dad and he’d see her even less, and the idea of never being able to see her made a part of him shrivel up and die. But right now, they had a job to do.

 

They caught Salvo, something NJPD had been trying to do for  _ years. _ And all it had taken was him pretending to try and hook up with Kono, an action which he apologized for repeatedly afterwards, only to be laughed off with a shove to the shoulder. Later that night (or technically early that morning) he got back to his apartment, showered, and got ready for bed. As he brushed his teeth, his gaze drifted around the tiny apartment. Honestly sometimes he was amazed that Rachel let their daughter sleep in this tiny rattrap. Grace deserved a real home, with her own bedroom and a bathroom that didn’t run cold more often than it ran hot.  _ But that still isn’t an excuse to take her away, _ a part of his brain supplied, bringing back to focus the phone call from his lawyer. Rachel was petitioning again. This time, though, it was for keeps. She wasn’t going to let Gracie see him without supervision  _ at all, _ and with the animosity between him and the brunette, he wouldn’t get to see his daughter until she graduated high school, and that was if Rachel decided to tell him if Stan decided to move again. His job brought him to Hawaii, it could take him anywhere. And Gracie with it.

 

The idea of him never being able to see his daughter again hit him like a punch to the gut, and he was tossing his toothbrush in the general direction of the sink as he made a mad dash for the toilet, getting the lid up just in time to be violently sick. Stomach acid mixed with champagne and toothpaste as his stomach heaved painfully. Grace was the only reason he’d moved to this hellish island, was the only reason he put up with the reckless man who’d made himself Danny’s new partner, recruited himself into a task force that constantly got him into dangerous situations. Grace was the reason he’d made it this far in his life.

 

As he hadn’t eaten lunch, his stomach emptied quickly, but the heaving didn’t stop for some time, leaving him shaky and clutching the porcelain bowl like his life depended on it. Finally finished, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, spit, and let himself fall back against the bathtub. His head was spinning, images of the shootout running through his head, only this time it wasn’t the football star and his dad getting hit. This time it was those gunmen near the concession stand seeing him, recognizing he was a cop, and drawing right then and there. Gracie is on the ground before Danny can even respond. In his mind he’s drawing, but the gunmen are gone and he’s checking on his daughter, making sure she’s breathing before ordering the shocked looking vendor to call 911 and keep an eye on her, and then he was running. Only he was too late. The football field was awash with red, and it wasn’t just the uniforms of “The Fighting Nuts”. Some people were screaming, some sobbing, others just standing or sitting in varying states of shock. Frantic eyes scanned the bleachers, looking for his partners. Then he heard it. Someone was calling his name. 

 

His gaze landed on Kono. She was running up to him, bleeding from a cut on the forehead. Her slender hands were painted red. “Danny! Thank gods.” She was panting, eyes darting everywhere like she was trying to find a non-bit of carnage to focus on. “Danny, it’s Steve. He’s hurt bad. He tried to take on those gunmen, Danny.” She pointed to the bleachers, or more accurately, the familiar dark blue top that was wrapped around a  _ very  _ familiar white tennis outfit. An outfit that wasn’t so much white anymore. An outfit that should have been out by the concessions being watched by a hotdog vendor. “He was trying to protect Gracie. Danny I’m so sorry….” Danny’s head was spinning and Kono’s voice had been replaced by a ringing, one that grew more and more persistent. 

 

He was on his bathroom floor in nothing but a towel, and his phone was ringing on the countertop. He pushed himself to his feet, head still spinning with the images he just couldn’t make go away. His phone stopped ringing. He stood in the kitchenette, staring down at the boxcutter in his hand. He could have lost Gracie today. He  _ was  _ losing Gracie, if Rachel got her way. He couldn’t blame the judges, he was a cop with a risky job made riskier by his reckless partner. He wouldn’t let a kid anywhere near a situation like that if he were on the other end. His head was getting louder. Threatening to drag him under. He set the blade of the boxcutter to the pale skin on the underside of his arm, and gave the thoughts an escape route. 

 

His arm still stung hours later when he pulled up in front of Rachel’s house to beg her to reconsider. He’d done the math. If he was lucky and nothing came up with work, he’d only have maybe 400 hours with his little girl, a little girl who was growing up fast and leaving him behind in her dust. He didn’t give her the chance to hang up on him before he was talking, reading off his numbers and reasons hastily scribbled on the tiny scrap of paper, the rest of a result. He thought he was going to suffocate under the wave of embarrassment and hopelessness when it turned out he’d been talking with his ex’s housekeeper. While she ran to get her mistress, he propped himself against the gatepost. He could have fallen right there in the driveway when her lawyer told him she was dropping the charges, and he didn’t even mind the pain that lanced through his nerves when he hoisted his baby girl into his arms while she told him she wanted a pink squishy football. He was going to keep seeing his baby, and she made it all worth it.

 

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To think that it had started with a missing dolphin trainer. He wondered, not for the first time during that case, that if Grace hadn’t forgotten her dolphin on the dresser, had he not had to run out in hopes of catching her, he wouldn’t have run into Amy, wouldn’t have had to hear the news that Meka was dead. If none of that had happened, maybe Meka Hanamoa would still be alive. Not dead in a luau pit with his badge in his mouth, like he was the pig with the apple they were roasting for the tourists.  _ Pig, slang for cops regardless of where you go. Like some kind of poetic irony.  _ They thought he was crooked, first IA, then some of his ex-coworkers at the HPD, then even Steve was starting to question. Danny wasn’t sure why, but that had hurt worse than finding out about the man’s death. 

 

Meka was one of the most honest men Danny had ever met, and for everyone to be pointing their fingers at him having gone crooked and was popped because of it… he had to admit he was beyond relieved when they found out he’d been killed because he’d discovered a mole in the PD. At last they saw what Danny saw, knew what he knew. Meka was a good cop who loved his family, there was no way he’d go dirty. 

 

Detective Hanamoa was buried with all the honors of a good cop. Danny donned the uniform he had only worn on three occasions since moving to Hawaii and stood by Amy while they lowered her husband into the ground. After the ceremony, he picked up Chin and Kono and made his way to her house for the wake. He was relieved to see Chin being treated civilly, if not with open arms, as he made his way through the mass of navy blue uniforms to where Amy stood with Billy at her side accepting condolences. Her eyes were red, but she gave him a grateful smile, the unspoken thanks in her eyes as she hugged him tight. He held her for a long moment before letting go and kneeling down in front of their son. “Your daddy was a hero,” he told him, pinning the cleaned and polished HPD badge to the front of his suit jacket. “Don’t ever forget that, okay?” He waited until Billy nodded before offering the little boy’s shoulder a comforting squeeze and rising to his feet in hopes of finding some food before politely excusing himself. That’s when he saw him, a familiar brown head of hair all but towering over the sea of blue. He pushed his way in that direction. 

 

“Thanks for coming,” he said, gaze taking in the man standing before him. He was in his dress blues, hat under his arm as he watched the cops milling around. He looked good, and Danny felt a part of him that had been hurting since he’d first got the news ease a bit. “Of course, Danno. I’m sorry, for your loss and for doubting you.” Danny nodded, blinking back at the burning in his eyes. The two stood there in silence for a long moment, and then Steve was taking him by the arm and leading him out into the back yard. “Steve, what--” before he could finish, he found himself engulfed in a pair of strong arms. “I really am sorry, Danno. For everything.” It took everything in him not to start sobbing right there.

 

That night he left bloody fingerprints across the glass framing the picture of him and Meka with drinks raised. It had been the first case the two of them had worked and cracked, and they’d gone out to celebrate. Amy had caught him on his way out, telling him Meka would have wanted him to have it. His arm burned. The steak knife lay abandoned on the counter behind him. 

 

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He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pull the trigger. All he could do was cling to the fence and struggle to pull hair into his lungs as he watched his baby brother taxi off in that plane. He’d tried. He’d wanted  _ so much _ to believe that his brother had just made a mistake and was trying to fix it, that it was the FBI in the wrong. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Matt had had a great childhood, loving parents, he was the doted-on baby boy, the popular boy in school because everyone loved the charming, goofy way about him. He was “the coolest uncle ever” and a loving son, always making sure to do something special for their parents for holidays, birthdays, anniversaries. He’d graduated into business and quickly gained favor in his stock brokering abilities. His clients couldn’t get enough of him, especially the older ladies. He had the height and the boyish good looks that Danny could have killed for when he was still a stocky twenty-something and Matty had just hit puberty like a heavyweight WWE. 

 

He’d stood there like an idiot, denying it even when it was in front of his eyes because he looked at that man and all he saw was that cute little boy he’d been, there when Danny had needed him, any time he’d needed him. But as much as he knew he needed to, that his  _ job  _ needed him too, he couldn’t. He stood there watching until even the plane’s lights had disappeared before turning and numbly climbing into his car, heading back to his tiny apartment. 

 

This time he went for the ribs, up and down his side until he was sure he looked like he’d been mauled by a group of rabid squirrels before reaching for the roll of gauze he’d set aside for when he’d finished. They’d pull each time he moved his arm, but he was glad for that. It would remind him of his failure as a brother and as a cop. 

 

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Peterson’s beef was with him, Danny understood that. But he involved Grace in his vendetta. Danny about had a heart attack when he got that call saying someone had been stalking his family, taking their pictures and studying them. To find out he actually  _ knew _ the person responsible, that it had been his partner before he made detective, hurt even worse. He’d called this man friend, only to find out he was stealing money from crime scenes, taking drugs, he’d gone dirty. And while it had hurt to have to testify, he did his job, and Rick Peterson got 10. And then he got out, and instead of moving on with his life and trying to salvage what he could, he made it his personal vendetta to ruin Danny’s. 

 

He’d been wrong, though. Rachel would have forgiven him for shooting Stan because she would have understood that Grace’s life was in danger, that he had to protect their little girl. He’d just helped the woman give birth to _the other man’s_ _baby,_ for crying out loud. He’d have done anything to protect his girls. So he’d aimed at the shoulder, making it quick and believable, and Peterson was none the wiser. All he could have seen before Chin and Kono got him cuffed was Danny’s bullet going into his ex-wife’s husband and the businessman falling to the ground. The darker part of his brain could admit that he’d wanted _so badly_ to do what Peterson was telling him to do and put those bullets deep in the man’s chest, but he was a Cop. And there was no way he could have walked away from that without everything being different. But when he’d put that bullet in Peterson’s leg, however, he could have emptied his mag into the man and felt nothing for his ex-partner. But he needed answers.

 

He found Grace safe if scared behind that pile of boxes, and when he held her close between himself and Rachel, it was almost like things had been before. Before the divorce, before the affair and then her leaving all over again. But then Rachel had taken his baby girl and gone to the hospital to be with Stan, leaving him with nothing but a backward glance. And he was left with Steve and Chin and about a dozen HPD officers. 

 

When he was back in the safety of his hotel room, he took the first sharp object he could get his hands on and went deep, up one arm and down the other. Over paled silver scars leaving little more than raised bumps behind and ones healed but still pink with new skin until every image that had run through his head of what that  _ monster _ could have done to his baby was washed away in the red haze that made his head spin. 

 

He managed to get himself cleaned up, but little more before he was falling into his bed, pillow hiding the tears he found he couldn’t hold back anymore. 

 

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If Catherine ever,  _ ever  _ decided to show her face around them, Danny wasn’t sure there was a force in the  _ world  _ that could stop him from punching her lights out. What Jenna had done had been bad, but at least there was body proof about what she’d said about her fiance, and she’d tried to help Steve in the end. Right before being shot by Wo Fat. Catherine, though… She’d  _ played  _ with Steve, played on his feelings for her and cashing in those favors she kept joking about, each one making Danny churn on the inside because  _ friends don’t say “you owe me one”.  _ She dragged him to Afghanistan to find a boy she hadn’t seen in seven years. A boy whom had been supposedly kidnapped by the Taliban. She dragged him there, and then she’d gotten him hurt. Not only that, she’d left him, and then had the  _ audacity _ to call Danny and say he needed to get in touch with Joe to get Steve back. Steve had almost  _ died  _ because of her. Had they not gotten there just in time, they’d have been shipping Steve’s headless body back to be buried next to his dad. 

 

They’d gotten him out. That was the important thing. And Danny had made  _ damn  _ sure he was the first face Steve was going to see when he regained consciousness in that camp hospital. He had a broken arm, the doctors couldn’t be sure if his ribs were cracked or not, and his face looked like someone had put it through a meat grinder. The image of him on his knees on the dirt floor, terrorist with a machete ready to lob off that tousled brown head that even half conscious had looked defiant, would haunt him for the rest of his life. When Steve had woken up, Danny took the first full breath he had since they’d been hunting that stolen liver and he’d gotten the call from Catherine. 

 

They’d tried to kick him out so that they could question Steve, but he’d refused to budge. He wasn’t military, never would be. They couldn’t do anything to him. 

 

Steve was beyond lucky he hadn’t been court martialed for his stunt, and Danny secretly hoped Catherine would be when she finally made a reappearance. She may have retired from the Navy when she’d joined Billy with his security firm, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t ream her ass over what she’d done.

 

The plane back was a silent trip, with Steve in a drug aided sleep most of the time, and Danny watching him silently, studying every curve and bruise and cut across his ruggedly handsome face. He’d almost lost this man, a man who wore his heart on his sleeve and for whatever reason let it be walked all over and tossed around by anyone who cared to. He was loyal to a fault, and it had almost gotten him killed  _ again.  _ Steve came out of it once or twice, mostly long enough to roll his head in Danny’s direction and offer him a smile, maybe a “hey, Danno” if he was lucky, and then he’d be out again; the pain that creased his face with every shift or bump of turbulence that jarred his injuries. Danny wanted nothing more than to lean over and smooth away those lines. 

 

They made it back to the big island and Steve was checked into the real hospital where non-military doctors could run tests and do x-rays and make sure he hadn’t picked up anything more than his bumps and bruises during his little… adventure. Danny saw him off before making his way home, opting for a long shower to wash away the dust and grime he’d accumulated. As he stood there under the spray, the image rose back to the front of his mind. He’d almost lost Steve.  _ Again _ . His eyes burned and he was grateful for the water hitting his face, even if it was just to disguise the tears from himself. He reached out past the shower curtain blindly, searching for the pants he’d shucked before climbing in. locating the garment, he dug around in the pockets until his hand closed around the scalpel he’d pilfered from the naval hospital while waiting on Steve to wake up. Still wrapped in it’s sterile plastic, he cracked it open, the unfamiliar metal fitting into his hand as he dug the tiny blade into his skin. From elbow to hip, he carved line after line into the fresher extent of skin, matching and then exceeding the ones on his opposite side, the ones he gave himself after Matty had run. He watched the blood run down his flank, across the bottom of the tub and down the drain. His head buzzed in a combination of blood loss, adrenaline, and the “what if”s of what had almost happened. He went until he felt numb, the burn of hot water meeting open wounds fading into the background of his mind to be replaced by a kind of peace. 

 

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His baby brother was dead. The sweet boy who’d been there for him through everything, who’d brought ice cream and beer during his divorce, the one who’d made a mistake and instead of owning up to it had chosen to run. He was gone. 

 

Danny had done  _ everything _ he could to protect him, coming up with the money in any way he could to get his brother back, had brought Steve along to Columbia with him to get Matt back, only to find out the man had been dead the entire time, shoved into a  _ barrel _ and left to  _ rot _ in that hellhole. So Danny got his revenge. Reyes was dead, Danny had the money back to return to rightful owners, and he had a body to return to his family. 

 

Steve--bless him.  _ God _ Danny was grateful for this man--had offered to come back to new Jersey with him, help him with funeral arrangements, but Danny had waved him off, telling him he’d be back soon and someone needed to relieve Chin from Five-0 head duties. They’d transferred Matt’s body to a pine box so that he wouldn’t have to turn up at home with his brother’s body stuffed into an oil drum. He called his mom from the Honolulu airport after dropping off Steve, letting her know what had happened--in less graphic detail than the truth-- and that he was bringing Matt home. 

 

The funeral was well conducted, considering it had been thrown together in a three day period. Everyone who’d known his brother and could show up did. Danny saw relatives, old friends, even some of Matt’s clients showed up to mourn. He held Bridget close, Stella being held by Eric and their mom next to their dad, keeping to themselves but standing close anyway. He could see his mother fighting back tears as the priest gave final respects and the coffin was lowered into the ground. 

 

The wake was held in their living room, consisting mostly of their family and a few close friends. Eric was there, talking to their Aunt Carol in the corner, his little sister Sophie curled up on a corner of the couch with a plate of food while Uncle Vito talked about all the shenanigans Matt had gotten into when he was younger. Danny stood by the kitchen, speaking when spoken to but otherwise staying silent. Watching all these people he hadn’t seen in years dressed in black as they talked about the dearly departed, and he had to wonder that if he’d been able to make that shot, Matt would still be alive. 

 

That night, after his mom had taken pills to help her sleep (slipped to her by Stella because she never would have taken them on her own) and everyone else was at their homes or hotels and tucked into their grief-laden sleep, Danny stood in his bathtub, thinking of the irony that this was where it had all started all those years ago, only this time if he went too far there’d be no Stella to patch him up. She’d taken Eric and Sophie home around 8 when the little girl was falling asleep and Eric was being forced to sit through another one of Cousin Janice’s stories. The woman was 55, one would think she’d have new material by now. He stared down at the faded reminders he’d given himself when he’d let Matty go in the first place, pocket knife in hand as he hatch-marked along the old, healed lines, reopening and over-crossing them as they made their way up his ribcage, the sharp bite burning the memories, the reminders of his failures, into his brain so that he’d ever forget what he’d done. He should have stopped Matt that day on the plane, but he hadn’t and now his little brother was dead. As he paused between his third and fourth rib, he pondered pushing just a little deeper and ending it right there, but quickly brushed the idea aside. They’d already had to bury one son today, no point making it both and ending his family’s chances of passing on the Williams name. Besides, if he did, Steve and Gracie would never forgive him for it.  

 

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She’d never planned on telling him. If not for Charlie getting sick, she’d planned to spend the rest of their lives swearing up and down that Charlie was Stan’s. The pregnancy had been the reason she’d moved back to Hawaii, to plan on making it work with Stan for “ _ his  _ kid’s sake”. She’d lied to him. Almost cost him  _ another _ kid, and it had become clear to him right then and there that regardless of what she may say, or how many times she may try to worm her way back into his life, they’d never,  _ never _ get back together, or be anything more than the people who gave life to and somewhat share two beautiful, smart, kind children. Sometimes he wondered where that last aspect had come from. Certainly not a beat cop from New Jersey and the British Bitch who’d tricked him into marrying her.

 

He’d been there, holding her hand through the emergency c-section. He’d held that squirming little boy in his arms as it brought back memories from nearly thirteen years ago. Had stood there in front of that giant window while another father told him a baby he hadn’t believed was his had his nose. Not  _ once _ had Rachel thought to tell him the truth. It was the last straw. She’d claimed she hadn’t told him because of his  _ job.  _ His  _ fucking. Job.  _ Rachel hadn’t seemed to have a problem with it when she was rear ending his squad car to comp a date with him, hadn’t seemed to have a problem with it through the start of their marriage and her pregnancy with Grace. Hadn’t seemed to have a problem with it even when he’d been tortured for evidence and seen his partner shot right in front of him. She hadn’t seemed to have a problem with it until right up when she was filing for a divorce. 

 

He’ll play along, be civil for Charlie’s sake just like he was for Grace. Never let them see their parents argue, that was always the rule when it came to families. He’d agreed to the blood test. He wasn’t going to let this child,  _ his son,  _ die because Rachel had decided to take things into her own hands. He’d thought just briefly about trying to take her to court over withholding knowledge of paternity from him, but knew it wasn’t worth it. It would be just like the custody battle; she’d go up to the judge with those crocodile tears about how she hadn’t wanted both her children growing up fatherless if anything had happened to Danny because of his job, or that she really had thought the baby was Stan’s until he’d gotten sick. Or worse, she’d try and drag Steve into the argument, saying the ex-SEAL was reckless and had regularly put Danny and even Gracie into dangerous situations. No. He wouldn’t put them into a situation like that. So he went with it, and he thanked whatever deities were out there that he was a match, and that little boy was going to get the treatment he needed, with good old Step-Stan footing the bill. To be honest, he was almost a little surprised that Stan was still with Rachel, even after she’d had an affair with her ex, had a child with said ex, and then claimed said child belonged to Stan. 

 

He was going to make  _ sure  _ he was a part of Charlie’s life. Even if he had to force Rachel into letting him.

 

When Danny had told Steve about what had happened, the brunet had been angrier than Danny had ever seen him, and for the barest moment had actually been afraid. Afraid and  _ extremely  _ grateful that Steve was on his side. He’d made offers, but Danny had just shaken them off, saying they weren’t worth it and that he was still going to make sure he was a part of Charlie’s life. The kid already called him Danno, and it made him warm inside to know his daughter had taught her little brother her special nickname for the blond, even if she hadn’t known the younger child was more than just a half sibling to her. 

 

He’d gone to the hospital, waited on the doctors so they could take their tests, and played with rescue trucks on the floor of the room with  _ his son.  _ Their case was over, Danny was officially clocked off for the day, and he was going to spend the little bit of time right now with his son. He’d go by “Uncle Danno” if he had to, but if that’s what it took….

 

Later that night, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror watching the red lines absorb into the cotton poking out of the paw print elastic bandage. They’d gone with the blood test because Danny was an adult and the testing would be easier that way. They’d explained that in 24 hours if it was a match he’d be called in and they’d need to do a bone marrow biopsy for the transplant. He’d not told them he was positive he’d be a match. When he’d told Steve Charlie was his, Steve had responded by telling him he’d suspected, regardless of what Rachel had been trying to pull. He’d seen it in Charlie’s face, his features matched Danny’s a lot more than they matched Stan’s. So he readied himself, read up on what was going to be required, and knew that while they’d numb him, he’d feel it later and that it was likely to hurt. Looking down at the red mess his arm had become, he knew there was no way it could hurt any worse than the way his heart was right now. 

 

He loved Rachel, and a part of him still did. He understood why she’d done it, but she’d also been right about something else. Right now, he hated her. And he had every right to. 

 

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Steve had almost gotten himself killed,  _ again,  _ so why was it  _ Danny  _ was the one waking up in the hospital?

 

The victim was a dead pool boy who evidently did drug dealing on the side. When he wasn’t sleeping with his rich old widow clients that was. He’d been shot in the back and was lying face down in someone’s hydrangeas. HPD figured it was probably something to do with a deal, maybe a disgruntled customer, or a supplier found out he’d been lying about profit and keeping more than his fair share for himself. Only problem was, when Kono checked in on his financials, it showed the kid was nearly broke. So who’d wanted to kill him?

 

The trail led them to some Asian gang Kamekona had been…. “Affiliated” with back during his time as a CI. He and Steve had gone down to where the Gang was known to hang, an old shipping warehouse around the west side of the island. All they’d done was go to ask questions, not make any arrests right away. And after a brief firefight that had Steve scaling the side of the building to drop in a tear-gas bomb, they got them. The kid had come to them looking to get hooked with a dealer for some big kilos, said he had a buyer willing to pay through the nose, said it was some Haole up in North Shore. They sent the description to Chin and Kono, and started back in the general direction of North Shore. Then they got the address. 

 

The “buyer” was evidently living in the vacation house of a wealthy older couple who lived in Maine, and was not so much a buyer as he was a cooker. Danny and Steve had entered through an unlocked back door to find the fancy kitchen converted into a meth lab Walter White would be proud of. The look he’d gotten from Steve for that comment had made it worth it. Danny had stepped out to send in a call to HPD to send their boys out to get this cleaned up, but had barely hung up when he heard gunfire. Swearing a blue streak, he was turning and running before the call had even been disconnected. 

 

Steve was behind the sofa, bleeding from a head wound he insisted was just from a fall, he was taking fire from the cookers who’d evidently walked in on him and then taken cover behind the kitchen island. Steve covered long enough for Danny to join him behind the sofa, whose foam guts had proven to be no match for the AK-15 rounds being fired into it by the skinny, strung out cookers who’d evidently (and fortunately) taken their lessons from the Stormtroopers. Steve was grinning like a maniac. “Having fun yet, Danno?” the blond could only roll his eyes as he returned fire to a bullet that had splintered the armrest right next to him. “You know what you are? You are  _ insane.  _ Certifiable. I have no idea how they let you keep walking around when you clearly need to be admitted.” The brunet just leaned close, firing over the back of the couch with an “I love you too, Danno.”

 

Unfortunately, that’s when everything had gone to hell. A stray bullet had nicked the gas line, and all it took was another to cause a spark, maybe hit the tv or graze one of the metal appliances, and they’d all go up. Steve and Danny shared one wordless look, and then they were up and running for the door. They were almost there when Steve took one to the shoulder, shot he’d been readying going wide. Danny heard the all too damning sound of lead on metal, and then everything was orange and red. He was being pulled in all different directions, pain was radiating across his chest and he felt like he’d been shoved into an oven. There was yelling from somewhere around him, but the inferno was darkening and taking him with it. 

 

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The beeping is what woke him. It was a Saturday, why was his alarm going off? He reached out to hit it, turn it off so he could get a bit more sleep before Grace woke up and demanded breakfast, but something was off. The skin on the top of his hand pulled when he moved it, and there was something clamped around his finger. He blinked open his eyes slowly. 

 

That white ceiling was becoming  _ way  _ too familiar, he thought, shifting his gaze from the hospital ceiling to take in the rest of the room. He had the bed closest to the door, Grace crashed out on the spare one near the window, and a familiar mop of hair in the corner of his eye. Turning his head, and cursing the nasal cannula that didn’t want to move with him, he found his brunet partner fast asleep in the bedside chair in a position that could  _ not  _ have been comfortable, one hand on the bed all but touching Danny’s. In fact, all the blond would have had to do to make contact was shift his fingers just a fraction of an inch. Breath stuttering slightly in his chest as he thought of how close they’d come to not being here, and what the fact that Steve had clearly spent the night, had his hand  _ so close _ to Danny’s on the bed, that Grace was there instead of still at Rachel and Stan’s, what it meant. He took the quiet moment to study the sleeping man’s face. 

 

His face was smudged with soot, t-shirt dotted with burn holes. There was suture tape on his head wound and a bandage wound thick around his arm from where he’d been shot, but other than that he looked unharmed, and Danny allowed a quiet sigh of relief. He’d almost lost that man so many times… On a whim, he shifted his finger, hooking it around Steve’s pinky. The finger was warm under his, alive, and Danny felt something he hadn’t realized was tight loosen in his chest. He was starting to drift off again when he felt Steve shifting in his chair, hand sliding further under Danny’s before being quickly pulled back. He focused his eyes to see Steve sitting up in the chair, sea green eyes wide with concern. “You’re awake!” he said in a half whisper, mindful at the last second of the sleeping teenager in the next bed. “How do you feel?” 

Danny made to sit up, but stopped when his chest pulled and a hand on his shoulder was pushing him back down. “No, Danno. Stay down. Nothing was serious, but the explosion sent some shrapnel your way. Doctors got it all out, said you’ll be fine and any burns were just first degree. They were, ah…. They were a little concerned, though…” Danny was about to ask what the concern was when he noticed Steve trying not to let his gaze drop to Danny’s arms. What…  _ oh. _ Danny’s throat closed. “I managed to convince them that they were probably just left over from cases because most of them were a lot older, but I’m not sure they believed me.” The brunet’s gaze was now focused on a spot near Danny’s feet, and the closure in his throat had turned to a vice around his chest. “Babe, Steve, it’s not what you think--”

 

“Oh, really? Really, Daniel? Then please, go ahead and tell me.” Now Steve was angry, but Danny commended the normally loud man for his ability to keep it quiet so as not to disturb Grace. “Danny, I cannot begin to tell you the number of guys I’ve known in the service who did exactly that. But Danny, you never struck me as the type of guy who would. Why, Danny? Was it something…” His voice trailed off, and the blond was more than a little unsettled to see that those green orbs were wet.  _ Oh God,  _ Danny thought, stomach knotting painfully.  _ He didn’t honestly think… Of course he did. It’s Steve.  _ Danny reached out to grab one of Steve’s hands, appalled to feel it shaking under his. “Steve, babe, no.  _ No. _ It’s nothing like that, I swear.” The brunet was focusing on their clasped hands, the soot smudged across his face hollowing his cheeks and giving him a skeletal look under the stark lighting. “Then please, Danno. Explain it to me. Because those doctors wanted to put you on suicide watch when they saw those scars.” The voice that came from those lips was quiet, heavy.  _ Dead _ . Danny never wanted to hear that tone again. 

 

“When I was fourteen,” he started, making sure Steve was listening even if the dark haired wouldn’t meet his gaze. “When I was fourteen, I wanted to die. There was a bully at school who’d made my first semester of high school absolute hell, and by Thanksgiving I’d decided I was going to kill myself over Christmas. So I brought all my school things home so my parents wouldn’t have to go back and get it, and right before New Years I sat in my bathtub and put a knife to my arm. It scared me, I started freaking out and Stella ended up finding me. She patched me up, made sure I’d learned from my mistake, and we never talked about it again. I never even thought about it again until Grace died. I’d gotten home later and I was ready to end it all over again, but at the time I realized that I had to live for Gracie. I couldn’t let her grow up without her father, never knowing about how brave her namesake was. She saved me, Steve. And every time after that she was the one who kept me going.” He gazed over Steve’s hunched shoulders at the little girl who hopefully would never know of all the times she’d saved his life. “And then I met you.” 

 

Green eyes met his at that statement, and he smirked. “Don’t give me that look. You’re not the one who’s responsible. Never have been, Steven. You’ve saved me, Steve. When Matty ran from the FBI, when Meka died, and then when we found out Matty was dead, you  _ saved _ me. I was low, broken, but you and Gracie are the ones who kept me standing.” He gave that calloused hand a hard squeeze, fingers going slightly numb when he received one in return. Steve was still holding his gaze, but if his eyes hadn’t been wet before, they definitely were now. “I love you, you animal, and you had to know that.”

 

The look on the ex-SEAL’s face was almost comical, but before Danny could say or do anything, he was drowning in deep green, and then there was a pair of lips on his. “I love you too, Danno,” was whispered against his lips and sealed with another kiss and all too soon the other man was pulling away. “Remind me to thank your sister next time I see her.” Danny started laughing, and when he couldn’t stop Steve joined in. Once they managed to sober up, Steve was talking again. “You need to talk to someone, Danno. A professional.” Danny nodded, head falling back against the pillow. “Yeah, I know. Stella told me the same thing a few times over the years. But babe, I’m fine, really.” The look he received at that comment spoke volumes as to what Steve thought of it. Instead of answering, though, he was reaching for the hem of the shirt that was probably going to end up in the rags pile when the man finally made it home. “Whoa, babe. What are you… what are you doing?” Danny was propping himself up on his elbows and doing his best not to stare at the tanned, muscular upper body being revealed. Tossing the shirt onto his evacuated chair, Steve lifted one arm and leaned in close. That’s when Danny saw it. 

 

It was small, less than two inches high and situated right at the top of his ribcage where his pecs met his armpit; the small outline of a butterfly. “After Freddie died, I was a wreck. I got Hesse back to the camp in South Korea, and I was ready to end it right there that night. Catherine called me. She’d heard about what had happened, knew where my head was, and told me she was close and to meet her in Seoul. We found an artist, he’d set up shop in the second floor of a noodle shop because tattooistry was illegal in South Korea, but she went with me and I got this. Paid him well for the risk too. She told me to do it as a promise to her to not do anything stupid, so I got it. Named it Hannah, after Freddie’s daughter. She reminds me to think every time I feel the weight bearing down on me again.” Danny reached out a hand, running a few fingers over the faded lines and feeling the skin under then quiver. “You saying I should do something like that?” he asked, eyeing the man. Steve tore his gaze away from Danny’s fingers, which had started tracing the lines of the butterfly. “I’m saying it might help.”

 

Danny let his hand drop, and watched the other man reach down to pull back on his discarded shirt. After a long moment, he spoke again. “Ok, babe. I’ll think about it.” The smile he received in return could have dimmed out the sun. “Scoot over,” he said, sitting back in the chair and starting to unlace his boots. Danny cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me. Scoot over.” Both shoes were side by side next to the chair now and the brunet was tucking his socks into the hole of one of them. Danny’s brain was starting to click into place. “What? Wait, no. No way your SuperSEAL body is going to fit on this tiny little cot with mine.” He didn’t know why he’d thought that argument was going to work, even as he said it. He slid over toward the other edge of the bed, watching the shoeless man stretch out on his side next to him. Surprisingly, they both fit, and Danny was instantly convinced that the man could bend  _ space itself _ to fit himself wherever he deemed necessary. “What about Grace, then, huh? What is she gonna think when she wakes up and sees us like this.” Steve had made himself comfortable by that point, one arm behind his head the other holding Danny close until the blond was pressed tightly to his side. “Gracie knows, Danno. Chin had picked her up from school for me and she was waiting at HQ when the ambulance was bringing you here. While you were in surgery, I was bringing her here and we had an enlightening little chat. She’s happy, Danno. You just worry too much.” 

 

Danny opened his mouth to argue, to question what exactly the man had talked to his teenage daughter about, but found the air for speaking removed by another pair of lips against his. “Hush, Danno. You worry too much. Now get some sleep, we’ll talk more in the morning if you’re going to insist on it.” Steve’s tone, though soft and fond, brokered no arguments so Danny sighed and let his eyes fall shut, lulled out to the steady, rhythmic breathing of the chest he was pressed against and the soothing scent that was gunsmoke and ocean air across a pineapple field, distinctly and completely Steve. 

 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the nurses who woke him, it was the overjoyed squeal followed by a heavy weight crashing into his chest followed by a rough, sleep heavy rumble as his daughter inevitably woke up and saw them in what could not be mistaken by anything other than what it was. He’d assured her a half a dozen times that yes he was fine and yes, he and Steve did indeed share feelings before the doctor came in to discharge him, albeit reluctantly. It was only Steve’s assurances that he was going to talk to someone and  _ no  _ he did not need to be placed under watch that finally persuaded the doctor. They went back to Steve’s house where Danny made a call to the number the doctor had provided while Steve and Gracie played out in the waves.

 

Two weeks later, a monkey wearing blue fatigues adorned the inside of Danny’s arm.

 

~End~

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a part of a series called The Butterfly Project, a self harm alternative project. I wanna assure you readers that I am very familiar with the severity of what's going on in this series and I do not condone self harm. These babies WILL talk to professionals, and they will get the help they need, but right now it's time for cuddles and knowing that they are not alone. I wrote this in hopes that someone out there can empathize with our babies or may know someone who could use The Butterfly Project. I encourage you to look into it if you're not familiar, or reach out. Even if it's to me. I'm always here willing to listen! Life sucks sometimes, readers. Doesn't mean we need to let it get us down.


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